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“Um, someone is coming to talk to you,” Karlene says in an undertone that’s not that quiet.
The stripper gives me a devilish grin and moves on, leaving me to catch my breath and wait for the confrontation. My eyes are on Hayden. I’ve never come to this bar in my life—in fact, I wouldn’t have come today if Karlene hadn’t dragged me—what are the chances?
I know I shouldn’t be looking at him. That I should have ignored his gaze the moment I realized he was here. But I can’t. I just can’t.
From those full lips and strong jawline, which was smooth two days ago but now has a few days’ growth, to the air of confidence oozing from him . . .
While his Angel, Inc. partner dressed like everyone else in the bar, mostly jeans and tees, Hayden Tanner sports a grey button-down with rolled-up sleeves and a dark grey vest that was probably custom tailored.
His brown hair is slightly slicked back, but not in a yucky way.
More like a sexy, sophisticated,you should probably run out of the bar unless you want to get ensnared in my webway.
“Doctor Flemming.”
His voice alone could impregnate a woman.
I don’t trust myself to talk, so instead I make a sound that’s meant to be a greeting.
He nods to Karlene. “Doctor Lawson.”
Pretending we’re not surrounded by women carrying drinks with penis straws, Karlene offers a very proper hello.
“I’m surprised you know my name,” she then blurts. Karlene has no filter, and I love it.
“You were at the meeting,” he says, “and I don’t forget names.”
Of course he doesn’t. It’s probably chapter one in the billionaire’s handbook.
“It seems like your glass is empty, Doctor Flemming,” he says. “Can I get you a new one?”
Karlene handed my empty glass back to me after I finished with my fun. And it was fun, despite the fact that those rock-hard stripper abs have had more hands on them than a lucky penny.
“No, thank you.”
My answer is swift. Firm. No-nonsense.
“Excuse me.” Karlene heads over to the party, where our police friend seems to be wrapping up his show.
“Why not?”
He’s as direct as I’d expect him to be.
“Because you are a sponsor, and I’m your RPM.”
“Do youwantanother drink?”
I look at the melting ice cubes in my glass. I could use one, but he won’t be buying it.
As I hesitate, Hayden leans over and says something to a young guy, an artist type who immediately scurries by us.
“Friend of yours?” I ask.
There’s not a ton of room where we’re standing—people keep jostling me on their way past. My inclination is to move, but I don’t want to signal I’m interested in continuing this conversation.
Hayden nods toward our policeman, who’s gathering his clothes.
“Friend of yours?”
