Page 13 of Peyton's Price

“I was saving myself for true love.” Peyton laughed, only so she wouldn’t cry.

Incredulously, he waved with his glass. “You need to get out there to make up for lost time. With your looks, you can have your pick of men. Hell, you can have several, one for each day of the week.”

“As if I have the time.” Her schedule at work wasn’t conducive to a love life.

“Well, don’t make the same mistake I did and date someone from work.” Dylan smirked. “Avoid that at all costs.”

She snorted. “Words to live by.”

Being in love with a coworker was a recipe for disaster, even when there was no relationship to speak of. Peyton took a second sip of the throat-scorching brew, swallowing it quickly. “I’ve been an asshole. Love is fiction—the stuff they use to sell tickets to movies and romance novels.”

Swirling her glass, she lifted it, watching the way the light filtered through the golden-brown liquid. “You’re right. It’s time to start dating.”

Dylan raised his glass in turn. “Cheers. Here’s to moving on.”

Chapter 7

Peyton collapsed against the door, her eyes closed. That was hands-down the worst date of her life. In the last few weeks, she’d been on enough to last her a lifetime.

The minute she’d put her profile up on the dating website, she’d been inundated by chat requests. Most had been unappealing—straight out requests to meet and have sex. She’d ignored those, cherry-picking a few of the more promising leads with disappointing results.

Tonight was supposed to be different. She’d been impressed enough by Dan Collier’s profile to go out of her way to meet him at a bar in Oakland. According to Google maps, the location was in a busy strip mall with several shops and restaurants. When she arrived, she found the area deserted. The various business that had made it seem like a safe and lively block shut down after dark. The only people out and about were drinking in the sparsely populated bar.

To add insult to injury, Dan Collier looked nothing like his picture. Peyton had been willing to overlook that detail if Collier proved half as charming as his profile. But the hopeful anticipation she’d felt died in the first few minutes of conversation. That was all her date had waited before launching into a hard sell to try to get her to have sex with him on the first date. The bar Collier had chosen was downstairs from his apartment. When she had turned him down, the creep had told her he felt sorry for her.

“Yeah, I’m okay with that,” she’d told him as she hurried to leave. She’d been kicking herself for her misplaced optimism the whole way home.

“Dylan,” she called, kicking off her shoes as she closed the front door behind her. “I’m home early. It went terrible—as usual. Have you eaten yet?”

Her roommate was almost always home before her. Rehashing her terrible dates over a few drinks had become something of a ritual. Not to mention she was starving. The bar hadn’t offered anything beyond pretzels to accompany their watered-down drinks.

Dylan sat in his usual armchair, but he didn’t have his tablet or laptop out. He looked up, a sheen covering his skin.

“I was hoping you would be in later, or not at all.”

Peyton checked her progress toward him mid-step. “What’s going on?”

A tingle of misapprehension ran up her spine. Something was wrong. Dylan was sweating, and he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking behind her.

Feeling a sudden movement, she spun around. There were two men behind her, one thin and covered in tattoos. She didn’t get a good luck at the other larger one, but she felt his hands as he grabbed her by the shoulders.

“Is this her?” the smaller man said, walking around to Dylan’s side. The stranger ran his eyes over her as the big man forced her down into the seat across from them.

“What’s going on?” She twisted away from the restraining hold.

The tattooed man smiled. “Our mutual friend has struck a deal to cancel out his debt.”

“Debt? What debt?” Peyton’s head spun. Dylan was a successful programmer. He made plenty of money. Aside from his house and car, he didn’t have big expenses. He still wore the same brand of hoodies and jeans he’d favored in high school.

Dylan shuddered. “I’m so sorry, but I’ve run out of time.”

“Time for what?”

“To pay us back for the drugs he stole, of course,” the tattooed man said.

“Drugs?” Peyton’s stomach twisted. “You’re dealing again? What about your job?”

The one he never seemed to goto, her brain supplied at the eleventh hour, far too late for it to make a difference. Dylan left after she did in the morning. And he was always back before she got home, but she’d foolishly assumed it was because he had seniority at work.

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