Page 75 of One Wrong Move

“A few of the invited people are more important than others, that’s all.”

I step closer, our shoulders brushing… and look over at the crowd. Give them all a quick glance. “Who?”

“They’re impossible to describe.”

“Why?”

“Because they all look alike,” he says dryly.

My gaze snags on the group of women standing by the dining room table. They all look beautiful, but fairly similar, indeed. Dresses, heels, blow-dried hair.

“I see.” A frown pulls on the corners of my mouth. Maybe he’ll let me help this time? It’s definitely an easier environment here, less risky, easier to introduce myself. “Anyone in particular you’re interested in?”

“What?” Nate turns, follows my line of sight. There’s a quiet sigh when he sees where I’m looking. “Ah. You’re still determined to be my wingwoman.”

“Isn’t that what you meant?” I ask.

His eyes narrow into slits. “Would you like me to return the favor? There are plenty of eligible men here. Single. With stable jobs. Available.”

I take a long, slow sip of my drink. It’s a terrible idea. I’m not ready to date yet… but I feel like being wild, and drinking more than I should, and embracing the new me.

Making bad decisions has never felt more fun.

“It’s a deal,” I say.

“A deal,” he murmurs, voice close to my ear. “May the best wingman win.”

Nate

Harper took my breath away as she walked down the stairs.

She does it regularly but in ways I’d gotten used to, like feeling the pinpricks of pain rather than an outright punch to the gut. Tonight had been another gut punch. Just as the first time I saw her at that college bar, sitting alone but not lonely, looking at her surroundings like she was analyzing them.

She descended those stairs in a floor-length, curve-hugging dress, with her wild curls draping over her shoulders. A soft smile on her lips and a dreamy expression in her eyes as she looked out over the living room.

For the briefest of seconds, it felt as if she was coming from upstairs—our upstairs—to our party. The hostess to my host.

I take another deep sip of the Negroni I’m drinking. It’s my third, and I should slow down. This isn’t a party like the ones I once used to throw. With friends, and poker, and the ultimate goal of getting hammered and laughing our asses off. There’s a purpose to this party.

Harper finding me a date was not it.

And it sure as hell wasn’t finding one for her, either.

But here I am, drawn in by the smile in her eyes and the teasing in her voice, doing it anyway. It feels like a repeating pattern.

Across the room, I spot her talking to a brunette standing by the fireplace. They’re both smiling. Cautious, tentative, hello-we-just-met smiles.

I turn away. Roll my neck and try to find the person I was supposed to impress with this whole shindig. Plenty of people here are acquaintances, yes, and a few are friends. But there’s one person here I need to connect with. Mads Knudsen.

I spot him in the garden, having a smoke. The cigarette casually dangles from his fingers, his gaze fully locked on the young man he’s talking to. Mads’s mistress-turned-second-wife should be somewhere around here, too. It had taken a lot of work to get an invite sent to them; even more to ensure they’d accept.

I drain my Negroni and step out into my backyard. Knudsen is the major stakeholder in one of Northern Europe’s largest energy companies, and it’s a stake my brother wants to acquire. It would give us an excellent infrastructure and a corporate foothold for future Contron expansions in the region.

Problem is, the man doesn’t want to sell.

People with a lot of money fall into two camps. Those who want nothing but more money, in a never-ending cycle of greed. They’re easy to work with.

But then there are the rich people who can’t be bought with money alone. You have to finesse them with experiences, with promises, with status. With things they can’t just use their no-limit credit cards to get themselves.

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