Page 2 of The One Night Match
I like my men law-abiding citizens, and I can confirm from reputation alone that Cruz De Luca is anything but.
He’s cunning, manipulative, and cutthroat, and I don’t know about you, but those things don’t scream good husband material to me.
Too bad I have no choice in the matter, and whether I like it or not, tomorrow we’ll be tied together for the rest of our lives.
I know of a few people who have been matched by the Mafia Matchmaker, and they all swear they were paired with their perfect match, but there’s no way in hell Cruz is that for me.
I don’t know if the algorithm is off, or if it’s all just one big cosmic joke, but I have no doubt that this is a mistake.
I drag my bottom lip between my teeth and consider my options.
I could stay in tonight, get room service, and wallow in an entire pint of ice cream.
Or I could go out and enjoy my last night of premarital bliss.
When you put it like that, there’s really only one choice.
Time to go and make a mistake of my own.
The club is pumping when I arrive, and I immediately consider turning around and going back to room service and wallowing, but instead, I steel my shoulders and move toward the bar on the far wall.
I skirt around the edge of the dance floor, avoiding the throes of sweaty bodies for the moment, but after a few drinks, I’m sure I’ll be joining them.
What’s a night out without some dancing?
But first I need a drink. For one last night, I need to have control of my life.
Because come tomorrow, I’ll be the wife of a Mafia boss I’ve never met, and with that will come nothing but misery.
I reach the bar and squeeze between two groups of girls. One appears to be celebrating her bachelorette party, and a pang of jealousy radiates through my chest.
She got to choose her groom, her future, while mine was chosen for me. My name was thrown into some stupid program, and I was matched with the devil.
I shake off the thought as the bartender stops in front of me, her vibrant red hair curled over her shoulders.
“What can I get you, hun?”
“A shot of tequila and a double vodka soda.”
Her eyes widen a fraction before she heads off to prepare my drinks.
A chuckle comes from beside me, and I shoot a look up at the person responsible.
The last thing I expect to see is the single most attractive man I’ve ever seen staring right back at me. His black hair is styled in a way that is both messy and neat—make that make sense—and his eyes are so dark they barely seem real.
Add a tailored suit and some neck and hand tattoos to the mix, and I’m basically a puddle on the sticky floor.
“What’s so funny?” I snap, my tone harsher than I expect, which only seems to entertain him more.
“Looks like you’re having about as good a day as I am.” He lifts his half-full tumbler of amber liquid.
I huff out a sigh and nod. “Something like that.”
The bartender drops my drinks in front of me, but before I get the chance to hand her my card, a hundred-dollar bill slides across the bar beneath heavily tattooed fingers.
“You don’t have to?—”
“Might as well drown our sorrows together.” He shrugs.
