Page 24 of When Hearts Ignite

Memories of Carl and her other exes wash over me, and suddenly, my body feels soiled from the leering glances and unwanted brushes of their bodies against mine in a variety of “accidents.” The margarita curdles in my stomach and my appetite sours. As much as Mom broke off these relationships as soon as something fishy happened, each experience seemed to solidify my views on the opposite sex. I’d never voluntarily put myself in such a vulnerable position.

There’s no way I’d ever make the same mistake Mom made over the years.

Falling for a man.

Any of them.

But then, there’s something about Steven, the way he seems to listen to me and see me. The way he took me up on my dare like he really meant it and wasn’t just giving me lip service.

Stop this train of thought and snap out of it, Grace. He’ll probably not show up any—

A few gasps and collective murmuring pierce the air, shaking me from my trip down memory lane. I glance at Jamie, finding her mouth dropped open as she reaches blindly toward me and grabs my arm.

“What?” I frown, scanning the room, searching for what has her so stupefied.

Suddenly, I see it. Or more accurately, I see him. The person who has the room shrouded in silence, with people scrambling to take out their phones and turn on the camera function.

Steven Kingsley strolls through the entrance like he owns the club, his bearing tall and face fierce, as if he’s riding into battle. He’s dressed in an impeccably tailored gray suit today, much like many of the men in the room, but he somehow elevates the clothing he wears with his classical features and the scowl on his face.

Several equally tall and attractive men trail behind him, but I barely pay them any attention, my eyes transfixed on my boss and my new “friend,” and how he seems to own the room so effortlessly, drawing everyone’s attention to him, even without saying a word. My heart clamors into a chaotic rhythm, and I can barely hear the music blaring from the speakers.

Slowly, he unbuttons his suit jacket, his eyes sweeping the floor in concentration, his lips pressed in a thin line.

“Oh my God,” I whisper, my hand covering my lips when his eyes meet mine, a full twenty feet separating us, but I can feel the raw masculine energy emanating from him as if he’s standing right in front of me.

One corner of his lips twists up in a half grin as he lifts one brow in the classic sardonic manner of his. His eyes are dark from a distance, but I can feel the heat from his stare, the intensity stifling, all-consuming. My body feels achy, my skin hot to the touch. I can feel him peeling back every layer on me with the strength of his gaze, as if he wants to burrow deep into my soul. I gnaw on my lip, my hands clutching my bouncing knees in a death grip as he pauses in the middle of the room and stares at us.

“Shit. If I’d bat for the other team, I’d be pregnant right about now,” Amber murmurs, having taken a seat next to me a few minutes ago after her awesome rendition of Billy Idol. Her phone is turned on and pointed toward the men, a video recording in progress.

I nod wordlessly, a knot forming in my throat, and Steven strides over, his brows furrowed with determination. He ignores the hollers and laughter from the men he’s here with—I guess he has friends after all—and the greetings from the people seated at the other tables, who all apparently know him. I guess it should come as no surprise in the lounge mere minutes away from Wall Street, everyone would know the king himself.

“Team.” His voice is deep, piercing through the chaos as he stares at us in acknowledgement. A muscle in his jaw twitches.

He whips off his suit jacket with a flourish and tosses it to me in one decisive move. My hand automatically reaches out and catches the soft material. The movement brings a fresh whiff of ocean breeze and leather to the air and my pulse careens out of control. Erratic like my heart. Scrambled like my mind.

“What on earth?” Jamie breathes, sounding as astonished as I am. I nod, my gaze transfixed on his retreating figure.

My mouth waters, my heart pounding so rapidly it may give up on me at any second. I grip his jacket on my lap and stare at his sharp figure as he makes his way up the dimly lit stage, unable to tear my eyes away from the way his muscles flex with each movement, his powerful body finely showcased in his crisp, sky-blue dress shirt and dark gray vest.

Steven unbuttons his cufflinks and slowly rolls up the sleeves, exposing the corded muscles of his forearms, and for a moment, I wish I were up close so I could trace the sexy veins that are no doubt there. Even though we’re in the presence of at least a hundred people in the room, the way he adjusts his clothing feels so sensual, so intimate, like something I would see if I were his girlfriend in the confines of his apartment.

His face is still as hard as granite, looking very much like he’d much rather be anywhere else but here and with one harsh tug, he loosens the navy tie on his neck, then rakes his other hand through his meticulously arranged hair, rendering it into a sexy, disheveled mess.

He turns to the deejay and murmurs something before striding to the microphone propped on the stand in the middle of the stage. Exhaling slowly, the corded muscles of his throat rippling, he grips the stand with both hands and closes his eyes.

The room falls into a collective hush as we wait with bated breath for what he’ll do next. The beginnings of a recent top fifty romantic ballad, “You’re My Stars,” plays from the speakers, the bass and beats reverberating, the evocative melody haunting, much like the shadows I saw in his eyes before. Flutters gather inside me and my spine sizzles with anticipation and trepidation at the same time.

He’s actually doing it. The bet.

My mind is in chaos, and I can’t seem to process any rational thoughts. My heart kicks out of control, trying to make its way out of my rib cage. My eyes are glued to the handsome man dripping with charisma and sexual appeal standing on the stage, the dark blue spotlight lovingly caressing every plane, reflecting the coiled tension in his body.

The opening chords fade and I can hear his ragged inhale under the silence of the room as everyone sits transfixed to the man on stage.

“When I look at you,” he begins, his voice deep and raspy, making love to the microphone he’s gripping on the stand. His eyes are still closed, but his face is leaning over the mic like he’s pouring his soul into it. “I see my future in your eyes…”

“Holy fuck, he can sing, sing.” That might be Amber. I can’t tell anymore.

“Someone record this!” some guy commands, but everything ceases to matter as their chatters fade away into the background and I can only hear one soulful voice piercing my defenses.

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