Page 15 of Mid-Thirties Slightly Hot Mess Female Seeking Billionaire

"Well, nice to meet you, Mr. Right."

"Yeah. It’s nice to meet you, too, Sarah. I don’t know if I’m Mr. Right Now or Mr. Right Forever, but hey, hop up on that table and then we’ll see."

"Oh, it will definitely be Mr. Right Forever if you see her dancing on the table. Sarah is known as the best dancer in the city." Isabel leans forward and tells Mr. Muscles, "She’s been called the Pole Whisperer by some men and the Slutty Stripper of Manhattan by others." My eyes dart to Isabel and I try not to glare at her. What is she doing? Is she out of her mind?

"The Slutty Stripper of Manhattan?" Mr. Right jumps up eagerly. His dark, glassy eyes are staring directly into mine now. I can see that he has a hint of green in his irises and some stubble. He also smells like whiskey and cigars. Now, he’s so close to me I can see that he’s even more handsome than I thought. And even more built. This is a man who spends several hours a day lifting weights.

"Well, you know," I say, blushing furiously. "I don’t like to advertise it, but I am known around town as a girl with some moves," I lie, and I can’t help but wonder what it would be like dancing for a man like this. I have a feeling his hands would be all over me as soon as the dance started.

"Ooh, baby. So you are a dancer or a sexy-ass, blue ball-giving stripper?" His words make my head spin, and I nod slowly as he runs a finger down my belly. Oh, boy, this is going way too fast for me.

"Yeah, that’s why they call me the Slutty Stripper of Manhattan, the best dancer on the Lower East and Upper West Side." I grin, feeling like an idiot, but I’m enjoying the attention. "I once got a thousand dollars for a lap dance, and I didn’t even have to remove my panties." I don’t know where the words come from, but I know I’m out of control. Isabel starts laughing, and I briefly turn my attention to her as she wiggles her eyebrows. Oh my gosh, what the hell am I saying? Why would I be lying about being a stripper?

"Let me see your moves. Get on the table, Slutty Stripper," he says as if he can’t believe his good luck. I can’t believe his good luck, either. I step onto the bench and then onto the table and start dancing, imagining that I am a sexy vixen here to turn men on. After the day’s events, I quite like being admired and paid attention to. Even if it’s not for the best reasons.

I’m swaying my hips back and forth and enjoying being the center of attention. I run my hands down the front of my chest and gyrate my hips. I’m about to start twerking when I hear a deep voice that makes me still.

"Sarah." The voice is loud and surprised. Why does it sound so familiar? "Sarah, from copywriting." I squint to try to make out who’s talking. It’s Jackson. Jackson Pruitt, the CFO of Rosser International. I’m going to die. I can’t believe he witnessed me dancing on a table.

"Oh, hi," I say, raising my hand in the air. I can’t see his face properly, and I know there’s someone standing behind him, but I’m not sure who it is.

"You like dancing on tables on weeknights or something," he says, and I want to close my eyes and stop time. However, I’d also be okay with a huge sinkhole opening up and swallowing me whole.

"She’s not only a stripper on the weekends. She’s…" The muscular guy starts talking, and I yelp.

"Can someone help me down?" I say quickly, and I watch as the muscular guy heads toward me, reaches up, and lifts me down.

"Thanks," I say gratefully. I can see Isabel grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"If you guys want a dance from…"

"No, Isabel," I say quickly, shaking my head. "This is Mr. Pruitt, my boss."

"Oh, the sexy CEO who was in the most eligible bachelor article?" she asks too loudly and checks him out.

"No, that’s Mr. Rosser."

"Yes, that’s me," Mr. Rosser says from behind Mr. Pruitt. And it’s now official.

I’m dead.

I’ve died and gone to heaven.

Or maybe hell because that’s where I deserve to go for being so stupid as to dance on random tables when my boss could be around.

"Oh, hi, Mr. Rosser. I didn’t see you there." I blink and try to pretend to be happy to see him.

"Apparently," he says in a slow drawl. "So, you work for me?" he asks as if he can’t quite believe it. My heart sinks in slight sadness. It is now one hundred percent confirmed that he has no idea who I am, even though he was in my office that very afternoon, and for some reason, that makes me feel even worse about my situation. I want to slap him across the face for not noticing me, but I know that’s an overreaction. Violence is never the answer.

"I guess?" I say nonchalantly, pretending I don’t care or even know who he is. I want to tell him that he’s not all that and he should pay attention to the people who work for him, instead of just saying that he does to look good in the press. But instead, I just stand there for a few moments, saying nothing. I know I’m in over my head, but I can’t stop myself. "Are you the CEO or just someone pretending to be him to get women?" I sneer like I think he’s an impersonator, and I know that this is the worst comeback of my life.

I am never drinking tequila again.

6

Ethan

"What is going on here?" I look at the blushing woman who just asked me if I’m impersonating myself. She’s standing in front of me and next to an amused-looking Jackson. She is blinking rapidly, and I wonder if she’s high. She looks slightly familiar, but I’m not sure why. "Jackson? Did you say this lady works for me?"

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