Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Stranger in the Night

The Skylark's dim lighting couldn't hide the fact that I was still wearing my wedding day makeup, though most of it had turned into elegant smudges beneath my eyes. Three glasses of top-shelf whiskey had dulled the ache in my chest, but not the humiliation burning through my veins.

"This seat taken?"

The deep voice drew my attention from the half-empty glass in front of me. I looked up – and then up some more. The stranger towering over me wasn't just tall; he was the kind of man who commanded attention without trying. Silver peppered his dark hair, and his tailored charcoal suit probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

"Depends," I heard myself say. "Are you going to ask why I'm drinking alone?"

His lips curved into a knowing smile as he sat down. "I'm more interested in why you're drinking whiskey like it's water."

"Maybe I just like whiskey."

"Maybe." He signaled the bartender. "But most women don't order Macallan 18 unless they're either celebrating or mourning."

Something about his presence made the room feel smaller, warmer. "And which do you think this is?"

"Considering the mascara tracks and that tan line on your ring finger?" His eyes, a striking shade of gray, met mine. "I'm going with mourning."

I laughed despite myself, the sound slightly bitter. "Good eye. Though technically, I'm celebrating my freedom from a cheating bastard."

"Ah." He ordered two more drinks. "Recent?"

"About six hours ago. I was supposed to be saying 'I do' right about now."

Instead of the pity I'd expected, appreciation flickered across his face. "Most women would be crying in their bedroom, not holding court at a bar."

"Most women probably wouldn't have walked in on their fiancé and maid of honor three hours before the ceremony."

The bartender placed fresh drinks in front of us. My companion raised his glass. "To dodging bullets."

Our glasses clinked, and the whiskey burned less this time. Maybe because of how his knee brushed against mine, sending an unexpected spark through my body. Or maybe because the way he looked at me made me feel seen for the first time all day – not as a jilted bride or a victim, but as a woman.

"Tell me," he said, his voice dropping lower, "what would you have been doing right now? In that other timeline?"

"First dance." The words came out softer than I intended. "Right now, I'd be having my first dance as Mrs. Henderson."

His eyebrow arched. "Henderson?"

"James Henderson." I waved my hand dismissively. "Probably practicing his golf swing right now while my best friend consoles him."

Something unreadable flashed across his face, but it was gone before I could decipher it. He leaned closer, and the scent of his cologne made my head spin more than the whiskey. "Their loss," he murmured. "Clearly neither of them recognized what they were throwing away."

Heat crept up my neck. "You don't even know me."

"I know you're beautiful." His fingers brushed mine on the bar, seemingly casual but deliberate enough to make my breath catch. "I know you're stronger than you realize, sitting here with your head held high instead of falling apart. And I know that any man foolish enough to betray you doesn't deserve a second thought."

The air between us felt electric, charged with something dangerous and thrilling. I should have pulled away. Should have remembered that I was supposed to be heartbroken, that this was probably the worst possible timing for the attraction building between us.

Instead, I found myself drawn closer, like a moth to a particularly alluring flame.

"Dance with me," he said suddenly.

"What?"

He stood, offering his hand. "You said you should be having your first dance right now. So dance with me instead."

The small dance floor was empty, the band playing something slow and jazzy. Common sense told me to decline. But common sense had left the building somewhere around my third whiskey, replaced by the intoxicating pull of his presence.

I took his hand.

He drew me close, one hand settling on my lower back while the other held mine against his chest. We swayed to the music, and I tried not to focus on how perfectly I fit against him, how the solid warmth of his body made me feel both protected and dangerously alive.

"What's your name?" I whispered, tilting my face up to his.

His thumb traced circles on my back, each movement sending shivers down my spine. "Does it matter?"

"No," I realized. "No, it doesn't."

His eyes darkened as they dropped to my lips. "Tell me to stop," he murmured, drawing me impossibly closer.

I should have. This was reckless, insane even. But the way he looked at me, like I was something precious and desirable, made me forget all the reasons why.

"Don't stop."

His kiss tasted like whiskey and promises we both knew would be broken by morning. I melted into him, letting the heat of his mouth and the strength of his arms erase everything else – the wedding that wasn't, the betrayal, all of it fading away until there was nothing but this moment and the fire building between us.

When we finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, I saw my own reckless desire mirrored in his eyes.

"Come with me," he said, his voice rough.

It wasn't a question, and I didn't want it to be. For one night, I didn't want to think or analyze or be sensible. I wanted to feel alive, to burn away the memory of James's betrayal with something hot enough to leave its own marks.

I nodded, and his hand tightened on mine as he led me toward the exit. Tomorrow I could go back to being practical, responsible Sophia. Tonight, I would be someone else entirely – someone who said yes to mysterious strangers and midnight adventures.

Someone who didn't know this decision would change everything.

His penthouse suite at The Ritz-Carlton felt worlds away from my abandoned wedding venue. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a glittering view of the city skyline, but I couldn't focus on anything except the trail of fire his fingers left as they traced down my spine.

"Last chance to walk away," he murmured against my neck, his breath hot against my skin.

I turned in his arms, meeting those storm-gray eyes. "I don't want to walk away."

The kiss that followed was different from the one we'd shared at the bar – hungrier, deeper, filled with a desperation that matched the ache building inside me. His hands tangled in my hair, carefully preserved curls coming undone beneath his touch. I didn't care. Everything about this felt like unraveling in the best possible way.

"You're trembling," he observed, pulling back just enough to study my face.

"Good trembling," I assured him, fingers working at his tie. The silk slid free easily, followed by the buttons of his dress shirt. Each inch of exposed skin revealed the kind of fitness that spoke of regular workouts despite his obvious executive lifestyle. "Very good trembling."

His laugh rumbled through his chest, but it caught when I pressed my lips to the hollow of his throat. "Christ, you're beautiful," he breathed, hands spanning my waist. "Are you sure about this?"

Instead of answering, I let my sundress fall to the floor. His sharp intake of breath sent a thrill through me – power replacing vulnerability as his eyes darkened with unmistakable desire.

"I'm sure," I whispered, and then his mouth was on mine again, stealing whatever words might have followed.

We stumbled toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of discarded clothing in our wake. Every touch felt electric, every kiss stoking a fire that should have scared me with its intensity. But fear was the furthest thing from my mind as he laid me on sheets that probably cost more than my monthly rent.

His weight pressed me into the mattress, solid and real in a way that anchored me to this moment. There would be time for regret tomorrow, for remembering all the reasons this was probably a terrible idea. Tonight, I wanted to lose myself in the safety of anonymity, in the freedom of being nothing more than a woman in the arms of a man who made me feel extraordinary.

"Tell me what you need," he murmured against my collarbone.

"Make me forget," I breathed. "Make me forget everything except this."

His answer was in actions rather than words, and I surrendered to the sensation of his hands, his mouth, his body moving with mine. Each touch erased another memory of James, replacing betrayal with pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.

Hours blurred together in a haze of passion and whispered endearments. Sometime near dawn, wrapped in expensive sheets and the warmth of his arms, I realized I hadn't thought about my almost-wedding in hours.

"Stay," he murmured sleepily, pulling me closer.

I waited until his breathing evened out before carefully extracting myself from his embrace. In the soft light of pre-dawn, I gathered my scattered clothing, wincing at the pleasant ache in muscles I hadn't used in far too long.

At the bedroom door, I paused for one last look. He was beautiful in repose, silver-streaked hair tousled against the pillow, strong features relaxed in sleep. Part of me wanted to crawl back into bed, to see what those intense eyes looked like in the morning light.

But fairy tales weren't real – I'd learned that lesson thoroughly today. Or was it yesterday now? Either way, this night had been perfect precisely because it was just that: one night, no names, no expectations, no messy reality to complicate the memory.

I slipped out quietly, taking nothing with me except the lingering sensation of his touch and the knowledge that at least one thing about my would-be wedding day had turned out better than expected.

If only I'd known then just how complicated "no messy reality" would become.