Page 13 of Enticing the Fixer

Now, they want my money. To be seen in VIP lounges. To build their social platforms. They want their ounce of blood. This woman is different. She doesn’t know who I am. But I need to know her name.

I trace my thumb over her bottom lip, relishing the sweet plumpness from our kiss. “I’m Leo. And you are?”

“Smitten.”

“Smitten.” I smile and drop my hand to her waist, not letting her go but not crowding her either. The choice of how this goes must be hers.

The lead guitarist plays a riff, and the crowd runs to the dancefloor, surrounding us as they sing along with the lyrics. “So, Smitten. Is it wrong if I ask you to come home with me? I think your ex was a fool to cheat on you.”

She bites her bottom lip. When she inhales, I brace myself for rejection. The fact I’m more than a little disappointed has me concerned. True, I haven’t had sex since dumping Rebecca, but I’m not looking for a happily ever after. Statistically speaking, that doesn’t even exist. Love is norepinephrine, dopamine, and phenylethylamine going off simultaneously and flooding your system. It’s an irrational and idealized version of reality.

That wears off.

For a few months, I conned myself into believing I could fake long-term feelings for Rebecca, but I couldn’t. Neither could she. We were a means to an end for each other. I used her to appear settled for business deals, and she used me to increase her social presence. Just not in a way that I consented to. When she violated my trust, she was gone. And so were her followers. I made sure of that.

“I shouldn’t.”

“That’s likely a good decision.” I drop my arms to my sides. “It was a pleasure dancing with you, Smitten.”

“I shouldn’t go home with you because I’m not looking for anything more than a quick fuck and a forget I ever met you. And that’s not something I do. However, I’ve had a shitty three months, and I want to go home with you and have you shove those bad memories away.” She cocks her head sideways. “For one night.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Someone bounces into her, causing her to fall forward.

I grab her upper arms to keep her from falling and glare at the man. “Watch it.”

“Sorry.” The kid’s face turns red as he grabs the hand of the girl he’s with and scurries off the dance floor.

I shift my attention back to her. “I would love to take you home, but my place is in a bad neighborhood.”

“That’s fine.” She smiles. “I’m not coming for the neighbors.” Her eyes twinkle with merriment. “I’m coming for you. I don’t have enough energy for the entire neighborhood.”

I couldn’t stop laughing at her ridiculous joke if I tried. She’s refreshing. So far, she’s flat -ogled me, stalked me, aired her dirty laundry about her ex, and now, she’s propositioning me for no-strings attached sex.

If I believed in love, I might have found the one. But I don’t.

After I sober, I wrap my arm around her waist, and we walk side by side to the main dining area. The space is quieter and less filled with off-key singers but reeks of fried food and beer.

“I’ll drive.”

“Good idea. I don’t think I’d make it without getting arrested.”

If she’s trashed, I can’t do this, and I don’t know her well enough to know how drunk she is.

I stop and grab her upper arms, studying her eyes. “Are you wasted?”

“No.” She blinks as if the change in the conversation has taken her off guard, but I’m not taking advantage of her. I’m thirty, not nineteen. I can jerk off if necessary. “But the legal driving limit is .08%, and I drank three drinks….” She drifts off and looks at the clock above the liquor bottles.

August raises his eyebrows.Perfect. How did I forget he was here? I’m never going to hear the end of this.

“My last drink was fifteen minutes ago, so I’d blow double that on a breathalyzer. It would take another seven hours until I can legally drive. I saw you drink three beers, and eat, so you should be safe to drive.”

“You know your BAC.”

“I don’t drink and drive. I don’t drink often, but if I overindulge, I have a designated driver or take an Uber.” Her eyes are haunted for a second until she blinks and runs her finger along my chest. “Listen, we don’t have to do this.”

What am I doing? I’m thirty years old. I have billions of dollars in assets, and I’m staying in a broken-down house and staring at a woman whose name I don’t know because God knows her name isn’t Smitten. If her parents were hippy enough to name her a quirky name like Smitten, she’d have on a brown fringed vest and be banging the drummer when the band exits the stage.

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