Page 22 of Heartless Sinner

“I’m almost twenty-six.”

“You look younger.” He seems to have genuinely believed that.

“Thank you. You look young, too.” I’m not as quick thinking as he was in finding a better way to ask how old he is.

“Almostthirty-four.” He borrows my words.

“Wow, you look like you’re still in your twenties.”

“Thanks. That feels like several lifetimes ago now.” He smirks. “Tell me more about your acting.”

Good. Back to a safe topic I can definitely talk about. But within reason. I can’t leave breadcrumbs about who I am. It’s imperative that I remain a nameless, practically faceless person while I’m here. The job may be simple, but then there’s the aftermath that I want no part of.

“I love playing characters who are either strong or deeply flawed,” I begin, summoning my inner Vivien Leigh, the inspiration behind my dream. It started with a broken leg the summer after Mom left and I found myself watchingGone with the Windwith my grandma, who was obsessed with Hollywood classics.

We enjoy our drinks and I find myself telling Mr. Dreamy about my acting experience without being too specific. So, I tell him about college without letting him know where I went. And I tell him about my favorite acting jobs without letting him know where they were.

Mr. Dreamy is so intrigued he doesn’t seem to notice the things I’ve purposely left out. And it doesn’t escape me that fromtime to time, his gaze drifts to my lips and lingers there like he’s studying the curve of my mouth.

I also notice that he listens and engages, but he seems to like listening to me more. By the time I finish talking over an hour has passed.

A quick glance at the clock on the wall across from us shows it’s nearly ten. I’ve already been out for a lot longer than I planned.

“Tired?” he asks, looking at the clock, too.

“Strangely, no.”

“Does that mean I get to keep you for a little longer?” Mr. Dreamy gives me a wistful grin with mischief lurking in his eyes.

“Maybe I’ll have one last cocktail before I head out.”

“Or you can have more water.” His voice drops, and I feel it in the pit of my stomach.

“Water again?” I smile.

His eyes spark with mischief as he leans in, closing the space between us until his breath mingles with mine. “I want to make sure you have a clear mind when I take you back to my room.”

My pulse thunders against my throat, and goose bumps ripple across my skin where his words caress it. Heat blooms in my chest, spreading outward until even my fingertips tingle with awareness of him. His closeness and his words have me caught in a spider's web of desire and hesitation.

I stare back at him, my mind racing even as my body betrays me with its response. He wants me to go back to his room.

The weight of my inexperience with situations like this presses down on me. I never actually saw this coming. Yet I know I should have. There's something magnetic about the way danger clings to him like a second skin, the way his smile promises both pleasure and pain in equal measure.

So, what do I say to him?

No?

That would be the most sensible answer, although I'd be willing to bet this man has never heard the word no in his life foranything. Let alone coming from a woman he's just propositioned.

So... what if I said yes?

It's not like I don't want to. I won't lie to myself. I like him. It's been a while since I liked anyone. And I haven't been with anyone since Anton.

I also have time. But outside the rationale of sensibility, could I really say yes? I've never slept with a stranger before. Or had a one-night stand.

“Silence again.” He tilts his head, studying my reaction, his dark gaze dissecting every micro-expression that crosses my face.

“I’m just…”

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