Page 43 of The Autumn We Fell in Love

Okay, not here as in the Fine As Wine Strip Club and Wine Bar kind of here. But at my side, out for drinks with a side of advice.

Valentina will know what to do.

Sure enough, as soon as we get our drinks, she steers me to a small booth in a dark corner, waits until we’re settled, then turns to me.

“Okay,” she says, already having heard my predicament on the drive over, “here’s what we’re going to do.”

I gulp my wine and lean forward, all ears.

“We’re going to get you a fake boyfriend.”

I roll the idea around in my head for a minute, testing it out from all sides. “Yeah,” I say with a shrug, “I guess that makes sense. But where—?”

Valentina wags her finger at me. “Why do you think we’re here, girl?”

My forehead puckers in confusion and I’m about to ask my friend what the hell she’s talking about. But she’s nodding knowingly toward the stage, dark eyes gleaming.

I follow her gaze to see an exquisitely chiseled man with mahogany skin spinning around a silver pole, upside down, holding on with only the strength of his powerful legs.

My breath catches. Because yeah, the guy is clad only in a red satin thong, perfectly showing off his Adonis-like glutei, I find myself noting. And club patrons and their dollars are giving fresh meaning to the termmake it rain.

But there’s something beautiful about him. The muscles in his legs and belly are taut, their angles precise.

But his shoulders and neck are relaxed. His arms fly free, graceful. The expression on his handsome face is so serene that I almost believe this routine costs him no effort at all.

It’s beautiful.

He’sbeautiful.

I feel like I’m watching a painting in motion. I never would have guessed that, in a place like this, I’d stumble into art.

There’s no convincing my eyeballs to budge from the sight of this man curling and spinning and unfurling his body in and out of various gravity-defying positions.

Not that I would want to.

When the song ends and the man dismounts the pole to collect his earnings and leave the stage, I’m breathless. Placing a hand to my cheek, I’m surprised to find it hot.

I turn back to the table to gulp more steadying wine. I’m greeted by Valentina’s smirk.

“That’s the one, huh?” she says.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I practically gasp, swallowing the dark wine.

“The answer to your conundrum with the investors — we get you a fake guy for the night. I figured we’d come here, watch the acts, you pick your favorite, we ask if you can hire him to be your fake beau for an evening. But,” her smirk grows into a genuine smile, “I think you’ve already found your guy.”

I shake my head, cheeks growing hotter. “No, we can watch more.” Part of me wonders if I’ll have a similar reaction to all the performers in this place.

The other half of me is certain I won’t.

Valentina’s plan is a good one, and she’s right. The dancer with the rich chocolate skin and peaceful face is the one.

Another man replaces him on stage and begins to perform something like a sensual solo tango. But just a few swivels of his oiled hips into his routine, I know for certain that I’ve already found my favorite and it’s not this guy.

I nestle into my seat, sipping wine, eyes trained on the stage. But all I’m seeing is the replay of the pole dancing man’s performance cycling again and again through my mind.

I want him.

If I was more like Valentina, maybe I’d admit that I want him for more than convincing my investors.

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