Chapter 3

He stops in front of our table, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly like he's trying to read me.

He’s gorgeous. In that quiet, devastating kind of way. His jaw is sharp enough to write angry poetry about, dusted with the kind of stubble that makes you wonder what it’d feel like scraping down your inner thigh. His eyes are a cool, unreadable gray, like fog over cold water, but there's something warm in them too.

He looks like the kind of man who ruins lives in novels and buys limited-edition watches for fun. Calm. Collected. Too composed to be anyone's rebound, and yet…

All I can think is, Monty could never.

Monty’s idea of “dressed up” was a button-down with pit stains and an ego that couldn’t fit through doorways. This guy? This guy looks like he owns a yacht he forgets about.

"Rough night?" he asks, voice smooth and deep, and oh my God. The accent. British. Like… actual British, not fake British like when Callie orders tea and says “cheerio” to the waiter.

I blink up at him, caught between swooning and sobbing. "Was it the mascara or the emotional instability that gave it away?"

He smiles. It's a slow, dangerous curve that makes my stomach flip. "Bit of both, honestly."

Callie lets out a low whistle, barely hiding her smirk as she sips her drink. “She’s single. Very single. Tragic backstory. But, like, hot.”

“I got that impression,” he says, eyes still locked on mine. “Mind if I sit?”

I gesture vaguely. “It’s a free country. Unless you’re a Republican.”

He laughs. It’s low and warm, and I swear it vibrates in places it has no business vibrating. He pulls up a stool beside me, and I’m suddenly very aware of how I smell (vanilla and desperation) and how my boob is 85% out of this dress.

“I’m Axton,” he says, holding out a hand.

I blink. “That’s not a real name.”

“It is, actually.”

“No. That’s like... the name of a guy in a steamy mafia romance who owns a shipping company and says things like ‘you’re mine, kitten.’"

He leans in, eyes twinkling. “Do you want me to say that?”

I choke on my drink.

Callie cackles.

The three of us fall into this weird, flirty little rhythm. He’s charming in a calm, cool way that makes my skin feel too tight, and I keep forgetting I’m heartbroken because every time he speaks I want to crawl into his accent and take a nap. I’m laughing more now, still drunk, still messy, but the sadness is fading into the background like a song on low volume.

Eventually, Callie’s phone buzzes and she glances at it. “Crap. My cat sitter locked herself out again. I gotta dip for like twenty, but don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Does that list even exist?” I ask, deadpan.

She blows me a kiss and disappears into the crowd. Suddenly, it’s just me and Axton, and the air between us shifts. Thickens.

“You live nearby?” he asks, voice low.

I nod, but then shake my head. “Yeah, but I can’t go home. Not yet.”

“Ex?”

I sigh, tipping back the last of my drink. “Yeah. I caught him auditioning for amateur p**n in my bed this morning.”

Axton blinks. “Wow. That’s…”

“Yeah. His ass was hairy.”

He tries not to laugh. Fails.

I grin bitterly. “I threw a champagne bottle at the wall. It was my favorite bottle, too. Vintage. $800.”

“That’s criminal.”

“I know,” I whisper dramatically. “I should be in mourning.”

There's a pause. His hand brushes mine.

“You could come back to mine.”

My breath catches.

It's not like he's begging. He’s just putting it out there. No pressure, no assumptions. But his eyes are dark, and there's something hungry in them, and my heart, the stupid, shattered traitor, does a little somersault.

I should say no. I should definitely say no.

But my blood is warm and fizzy, my brain is fuzzy, and for the first time today, I don’t feel like screaming into a void.

“Okay,” I whisper, already regretting it and not regretting it all at once.

His car is sleek and black, the kind that hums when it moves and smells like new leather and cologne. I sink into the seat like it’s swallowing me whole. The city lights blur past the windows, and I’m tipsy and giggling again, one heel kicked off, legs tucked under me.

By the time we reach his apartment building, glass and steel and rich people vibes—I’m somehow nervous and exhilarated at the same time.

We step into the elevator, and the second the doors close, it’s like a switch flips.

He grabs my waist.

I gasp.

Our mouths crash together, messy, hot, urgent. His hands are in my hair, mine are tugging at his shirt, and suddenly I don’t care about Monty or the girl with the neon bra or my shattered little heart.

Right now, I just want to forget.

And Axton is very, very good at helping me do that.