Good Time(7)

Ahead of us there’s a seating area with leather couches and a couple of armchairs. A coffee table sits in the middle, made of what looks like reclaimed wood set in a herringbone pattern, a slim metal frame supporting. There’s a coffee bar built into the side wall—wooden cabinets topped with a slab of sleek marble, an industrial coffee maker and glass jars of sweeteners and granola bars lining the countertop.

And there’s a desk.

Just one.

Where a curvy woman who must be in her fifties sits, beaming at our arrival, making me feel as though I’ve just stopped at a friend’s house after school instead of into the back room at a strip club.

It’s a bit of a letdown if I’m honest. I thought this meeting was going to be a bit more dramatic, but this woman looks like she runs a book club, not a strip club. The kind of book club that only discusses books with fade-to-black sex scenes or, worse, books with no romance at all. Ugh. Lydia doesn’t need me here for this. These two will be exchanging crockpot recipes while they sort out Rhys’ life for him with this pseudo-auction.

I hate not being needed.

“I’m Sally,” the woman says, rising from her desk with another smile. “You ladies wanted to see Vince? Can I offer you a coffee or water before you go in?”

Vince. Okay, now we’re talking. Vince sounds like he could be a goon smoking a cigar. Vince could be sitting in a dimly lit office that smells like desperation and looks like the set of a mafia drama on HBO.

“No, I’m fine, thank you,” Lydia says, politely declining the beverage offer.

“I’m good too,” I add, holding up my half-empty iced coffee cup, rattling the ice with a shake of my wrist. “Still working on this, thank you.”

The woman nods and moves around her desk, gesturing towards a closed door as she walks. Reaching it, she opens it and waves us through, telling Vince we’re the young ladies who requested to see him. The door shuts softly behind us.

This is it. The office. The head honcho.

There’s no smoke.

No goons.

And Vince? Vince is not who I was expecting. Not even close.





Chapter Five





Holy mother of shit. Vince is hot. Young and hot. Well, not that young—I’d guess he’s in his thirties, but I was expecting a fat man in his seventies, so he’s young comparatively. He’s also the same man I saw in the lobby of the Windsor a few days ago, talking to Canon.

Which means he’s come back to me, doesn’t it? I think it does. Sure, it could be a coincidence. It could. Canon is friends with Vince, so he stopped by the hotel. Lydia likes Rhys, so we stopped by the strip club. Blah, blah, blah. Coincidence? Nope. Because coincidence is really just another word for fate. It’s true, look it up.

I grin. Big, big, big.

I’ve never had a thing for older guys. I’ve never been that girl who fantasized about seducing her teacher or her coach or her older brother’s best friend. I’ve never fantasized about seducing anyone really, mainly because in my experience boys haven’t been that hard to get. I’ve always dated guys from school and it was always easy enough to determine if there was a mutual attraction before I got too invested in crushing on someone.

Vince is delicious. Vince is every inappropriate fantasy I’ve never had wrapped up into one package.

This day is already going so much better than I could ever had anticipated. Maybe Lydia’s plan isn’t so nuts after all. See! Another coincidence! Who sells their virginity? No one, that’s who. Especially not twenty-two-year-old women with jobs and a history of being good girls.

Yet here we are.

Vince glances up from his desk as Sally announces our arrival and when his eyes land on mine they’re just as devastating as I knew they would be, except I don’t think devastating is the right word. I need to thesaurus myself another word for his eyes later. A word that means I want to have his babies immediately.

Maybe. It’s still possible he’ll annoy me when he speaks, so there’s no need to get ahead of myself. No worries though, if we don’t click, we can still have sex. As long as he’s willing to shut the fuck up.

I wonder what he’s into? He runs a gentlemen’s club so I might need to be open to new things, but I’ve always prided myself on my adaptability so I feel good about this.

Lydia strides forward and sticks her hand out in introduction. Bless her heart. If she prepared a presentation for this meeting I will die. I stroll up beside her as Vince rises and shakes her hand, a look of polite indifference on his face. He doesn’t even check out her tits.

This is nothing like the meeting I was expecting.

“Payton,” I tell him, holding out my hand when Lydia is done. His gaze flickers from her to me as he shakes my hand. He doesn’t check out my tits either, which is disappointing. Gentlemanly but disappointing nonetheless. They’re really nice, my tits. To be fair though, I did dress for a meeting with an old pervert, not one with my maybe future husband.

This office looks much the same as the reception area we were just in. Expensive neutrals. A wood desk that looks like it would be comfortable on the pages of a high-end furniture catalog. Two sleek chairs placed before it for visitors and a credenza behind with a single potted plant on the surface. I’m guessing that touch is Sally’s.

It’s a nice office. Polished, much like Vince himself.