Page 33 of Dial B for Billionaire

I freeze mid-dance, skin suddenly electric with awareness. This is the first time tonight that I’ve felt it, and the sensation of being watched intensifies until I can't ignore it, forcing me to scan the crowded rooftop.

“What's wrong?” Serena shouts over the music.

“Nothing,” I shake my head, unable to spot anyone looking our way, but struggling to shake the feeling. “Just paranoid, I guess.”

“That's what the third shot is for!” She shimmies closer, already signaling a passing waiter with a tray of something dangerous and colorful.

Three shots in, and the dance floor becomes our kingdom. We move together in the easy rhythm of longtime friends, laughing at nothing and everything. The music pulses, the city twinkles, and for blissful moments, I forget about companies and contracts and complicated men with perfect jawlines.

Until one appears directly in front of me.

“Can I join you?” Navy Blazer Guy asks, already moving into our circle with practiced confidence and zeroing in on me.

He's attractive enough, with a strong jaw, kind eyes and an easy smile. A month ago, I might have welcomed the attention.

But now all I see is that he's not him. Not Bennett. His eyes aren't steel-blue. His presence doesn't command the air around him.

Damn it.

“Sorry,” I say, raising my voice over the music. “Girls' night.”

His smile falters only slightly. “Just one dance? It’d be a shame to waste that dress.”

“The lady said no,” Serena interjects, physically inserting herself between us. “Places to go, people to avoid.”

He backs away, hands raised in good-natured surrender, and disappears into the crowd.

“You didn't even give him a chance!” Audrey says, leaning close to my ear.

“Not interested.”

“Because of Mr. Mercer?” Serena asks, emphasizing his name while waggling her eyebrows dramatically.

“We're not talking about work,” I remind her, resuming my dancing with forced enthusiasm.

“Fine. I'm getting water,” Serena announces. “Guard our dancing territory with your lives!”

As she weaves through the crowd toward the bar, I close my eyes, letting the music flow through me. The tequila has softened the edges of my anxiety, leaving behind a pleasant buzz and the freedom to just exist in this moment, in this dress, in this body that's been carrying too much tension for too long.

That's when I feel it again—that electric awareness, stronger now. A presence moving closer.

Strong hands settle at my waist from behind.

My breath catches. I should turn. Should push away. Should demand to know who's touching me.

But I don't.

Because somehow, impossibly, I already know.

The hands guide me, turning me slowly until I'm facing him.

Bennett Mercer.

More handsome than I've ever seen him in dark jeans and a charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled to reveal unfairly sculpted forearms. In the low light, surrounded by music and movement, he looks like trouble and temptation wrapped in designer fabric.

“Mr. Mercer?” I hate how breathless I sound, how my body instantly responds to his proximity.

He doesn't answer. Just pulls me closer until we're moving together, his thigh sliding between mine as we find the rhythm of the music. His eyes never leave mine, intense and unreadable in the shifting lights.

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