Page 17 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
"I might be going home with the bartender," I whisper to Ashley, but she doesn't respond. She's looking at someone behind me, frowning quizzically.
"Hey, I don't know if I'm seeing things, but I swear the guy in the hat in the corner over there has been staring at you for some time now. No… don't turn round, he'll see you." She puts a hand on my arm to stop me. "Just yawn and stretch and kind of casually take in the room, or something. Fawn-colored jacket, black baseball cap. Keeps looking our way. See if you recognize him."
I do as she says, dramatically yawning and stretching as I look around. I spot him: a large man in casual clothes with a baseball cap shielding most of his features.
Even with the cap, recognition shoots through me. I can tell instantly who he is—just from his build, from that panther-like quality he has, the way he carries himself as if ready to spring at any moment.
"Oh my God. What is Grayson Wolfe doing here?"
"That's him?" Ash squeals. "Are you sure?"
I nod. I'm certain. It's the hands—the same ones that wrapped around my breasts, the hands that cupped my ass as he fucked me. Now they're wrapped around a beer mug.
I would know those hands anywhere.
Is he following me? This feels like too much to be a coincidence.
I don't know, but there's only one way to find out. I'm not the type for games, and after a few cocktails I'm not lacking in bravado. I get up, carefully place my now-empty fifth cocktail glass on the bar, and make my way over to him.
Surely this isn't an establishment someone like him would come to. It's not exactly a dive bar, but it's only a step above one. There are no VIP sections here, no Cristal champagne, hundred-dollar tequila shots, or famous DJs spinning for the celebrity A-list. Just normal workers, bottomless Mimosas, loud music, and gyrating, sweaty bodies. We come here because the drinks are cheap and the music's sometimes good.
Grayson doesn't have to worry about things like this.
I cut through some winding and grinding bodies in the center of the room and head toward Grayson's table. He's sitting alone, no longer staring at me, but I can tell he's aware of my approach. I reach his table without mishap and fix him with what I hope is my very best stern stare.
"Are you following me?" I demand.
"Don't flatter yourself."
"Well then, if you're not following me, what are you doing here?" His eyes are so dark, yet so inviting. The scent of his cologne tantalizes me, and I cross my arms over my chest to hide the effect he has on my body.
"Same thing you are."
"And you couldn't do this at one of your clubs?"
"My clubs don't play music like this."
They're playing a fairly unknown Latin song, and I raise my eyebrow. "You like the music?"
"Sure."
"Then why aren't you dancing?"
"I don't have a partner."
"You do now," I hear myself saying.
Did I really just say that?
I don't know if it's the alcohol, his cologne, or the fact that it's been so long since I've had male company that actually meant something to me, but I find myself strangely enjoying the conversation. His being here feels… different. For once, it feels like we're equals meeting on neutral territory, not a wealthy client patronizing an unimportant supplier.
Of course, it's only an illusion. He's still the heir and CEO of a billion-dollar company, and I'm just a nobody. But it feels good nevertheless.
Perhaps that's why I throw down the gauntlet.
I expect him to turn me down, and I'm ready to tease him when he does. But to my surprise, his eyes lock on mine with a laser-sharp stare—as if he can see straight through me—and then, like a switch flipping, he smiles. He rises effortlessly to his feet and offers me his hand. "Sure, why not?"
Why not? My stomach flip-flops, and my heart races as he stretches to his full height, nearly a head taller than anyone else in the room.
