Page 1 of Charmed and Alarmed

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HOLDEN

6 MONTHS AGO - NEW YEAR’S EVE

Coming here wasn’t my idea.

One might think, given my long-standing predilection for unattached sex, that frequenting bars and nightclubs would be a custom of mine. That isn’t the case, however, and this is the first time I’ve stepped foot in a place like this in years.

I’m now remembering why.

The music is shit, the drinks are worse, and it’s so crowded I’ve had my toes stepped on no less than four times since entering the building. My date might be attractive, but my dedication to fucking her is steadily diminishing with every additional minute I’m forced to spend here.

As a stranger staggers past, trying to shove a pair of cardboard glasses shaped like the new year onto my face, my patience comes to an abrupt end. I don’t often like to think of myself as too old for something, but there isn’t a doubt in my mind that at forty, I am absolutely too old for this shit.

“Do you want to leave?” I ask the woman I arrived with, Janine, who is perched on the bar stool beside mine, chatting with one of the friends she “forgot” to mention we were meeting here.

Janine looks around, pouting. “But it’s almost midnight!” she whines, gesturing to the big blue countdown clock projected on the wall above the stage.

It is not almost midnight. We have over half an hour to go until then, and I would rather go home alone to fuck my own hand than wait around here for that time to come and go. I shake my head, offering her a pained smile. “You have fun, I’m heading out for the night.”

As I go to move, she catches my arm. “No, I’ll come! Just let me hit the ladies’ room first!”

For fuck’s sake.

I force myself to offer her a tight smile, nodding in agreement. Judging by the line I saw when I went into the men’s room a while ago, her restroom detour will have us here until midnight anyway.

Scrubbing a hand over my face, I turn back to the bar, intending to settle up the bill. As I do, a woman sitting down on the empty stool beside mine catches my eye.

She’s wearing a very short, shimmering gold dress and matching heels that make her legs look endless. Her dark brown hair is pulled up in a tight bun, with tiny gold pins encircling it like a tiara.

Every inch of her that I can see is delicate and toned, and I’m quite sure I’ve never seen a woman hold herself the way she does, as if she’s royalty, and this shitty barstool is her throne.

A flute of champagne is held in her hand, and as she turns to examine the specials menu, I feel as though I’ve been hit by a truck.

I know her.

“Leni?” I hiss, horrified with myself for the blood that went rushing to my cock the moment I saw my business partner’s youngest daughter.

She turns to look at me, and her eyes go wide with recognition. “Holden! Wow. Small world.”

“Very small,” I agree with an uncomfortable laugh, my hand falling to my lap to discreetly adjust my hardening dick. “Shouldn’t you be in New York?”

The last time her bragging father mentioned her, which was yesterday, Lenora Vogel—more commonly called Leni—was in New York City preparing for her role in a major ballet.

Leni sips her champagne. “A friend of mine is in the band.” She gestures toward the stage, where a small group of men are part of the way through a shitty Queen cover.

A friend? Ignoring the immediate, irrational bite of jealousy this information sparks, I tilt my head to the side, pretending to study the group. “Interesting song choice,” I say at last, turning back to look at her.

Jesus, I’m definitely attracted to her. Little Leni is all grown-up and unquestionably stunning, the type of woman I would try to take home if the circumstances weren’t what they are. Bram is not what anyone would call easygoing, and I doubt his new relationship with a younger woman would save me from his wrath if I took Leni to bed.

My cock, oblivious to the very real threat of being forcibly removed from my person should it go within a foot of Lenora Vogel, throbs at the thought.

“I didn’t realize you had such discerning musical tastes, Holden,” Leni replies primly, and I know she doesn’t miss the way my eyes track the path of her champagne flute to her lips again.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Lenora.”

The crowd cheers at the end of the song, and I step closer to her on the pretense of making room for a group trying to get past me. Her knees brush my thighs, and I know I’m not imagining the way they press more firmly together at the contact.

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