Page 65 of My Totally Unfair Deal

“With my boyfriend.”

He laughs. “Tell him I’ll bring you home then.”

“Will do.” I stand and walk with him to the door, pausing only when he glances sideways at me.

“You think Jackson would hate it if I dated Harrison?” I ask.

“That guy is Harrison?” He stops walking. “His college roommateHarrison?”

“Yeah…”

“Oh, shit.” He lets out a laugh, shaking his head. “I’m gonna be honest with you…”

“Okay?”

“Yes—he’ll fucking hate it.” He grins. “But if he trusted Harrison enough to bring you up here and let him help, then maybe—maybe—he’ll eventually come around.”

“So, I should tell Jackson that I really like him?”

“Fuck no.” He gives me a horrified look. “Wait until you get back home. See if your relationship even survives real life.”

“And then?”

“Then add five years before saying shit to Jackson.”

“Just five?”

“You’re right,” he says. “Ten would be safer.”

THIRTY TWO

ELIZA

The ride back to the penthouse with Lance is a blur of headlights and quiet laughter.

He drops me off with a lingering hug and a warning not to “ruin my whole life over a guy with great bone structure.” I promise not to, and I rush upstairs to thank Harrison for making tonight special for me.

The following evening

I step off the elevator inside the Parker International Hotel, ready for the evening’s rooftop social—one of the first official events tied to this week’s conference.

The terrace is already glowing with string lights, rooftop fire pits, and a golden Manhattan skyline that makes everything feel cinematic. Sleek white lounge seating and tables are scattered around the space, and soft jazz drifts over the low hum of conversations.

My heels click softly against the tiled floor as I walk in.

Tonight’s dress is Tom Ford—backless, black, and made for sin. My hair’s pinned just right. And for once, I don’t feel like an imposter in my own skin.

A man steps into my path near the bar, offering me a drink with a charming grin. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with a sharp suit and easy confidence.

“Hi,” he says. “Flynn.”

“Eliza.”

“I gathered that.” He smiles. “Tell me you’re not from New York, because if you are, every man in this city owes me an apology for not noticing you first.”

I smile, accepting the glass. “Born and raised in Tennessee.”

“Of course you are.” He leans in, voice like velvet. “No one from here would look me in the eye like that.”

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