Dare Me(49)

“What cocktail party?” I lick some salt from the rim of my glass before taking a sip of margarita. The tequila burns as it travels down my throat to my stomach.

“Every year, Jackson-Hamilton hosts a cocktail party for our clients,” he begins. “We do it this time of year instead of around the holidays because Chicago weather is so unpredictable. Years ago, it started out small, just an open bar and casual atmosphere, but over the last couple of years, it’s turned into something much more formal.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What do you mean by formal?” I stuff a chip in my mouth.

“Everyone dresses up; we have drinks of course, and food. Last year, we had heavy appetizers, but Joyce has insisted on a buffet dinner for this year. All of this happens in the penthouse.”

“I’ve never been to the penthouse,” I say, wondering what it looks like. If it’s Jackson-Hamilton’s, I can imagine it’s probably extravagant.

He jerks his head toward the ceiling. “It’s one floor up. We rarely use it. The entire floor was converted into an amazing meeting and gathering space. If we’re hosting numerous clients or holding events, we use the penthouse.”

“So Sergio will be there,” I say, pushing my rice around my plate as an unsettling feeling creeps in.

“He will. But it won’t be a concern,” he says matter-of-factly.

“How do we know that?” I ask skeptically. My stomach twists when I think about coming face to face with Sergio.

“Because I’m not leaving your side the entire night.” His blue eyes lock on mine, sealing his promise.

I wipe my mouth and smile at him. “Do you honestly think that’s realistic?” I take another bite of my taco.

“Absolutely. When it comes to you, I’d do anything to keep you safe.” My stomach settles and my heart flutters.

“Holt,” I whisper, and he leans in and presses his finger to my lips, shushing me. “Okay, changing subjects,” I say. The tequila from the margarita has warmed my belly, and I’m feeling just brave enough to dig for information.

“Go for it,” he says.

“I’ve seen Jack Morrison three times. The first time you introduced him to me, everything was fine. The second time, when we were at his nightclub, I got a bad feeling. And then today, I could’ve sworn he was talking about me.” I hate how insecure I sound as I ask about this.

Holt scrunches his face in confusion but drops his eyes. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“Holt,” I say plainly, “girls know when something is up. It’s our intuition or something. He doesn’t like me—and I’d like to know why.” I push my plate away.

Holt sighs. “Jack doesn’t know you well enough to like you or dislike you, Saige. And honestly, the only person you should be concerned about liking you or not liking you is me.” He grins and leans forward, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek.

“No.” I shake my head. “Something is up.” I twist my napkin around my finger as I question him further.

“Nothing is up, Saige.” He sits back in his chair confidently.

“Then who was he talking about this afternoon at the office?” I ask, trying to not sound upset.

He purses his lips and shrugs. “I don’t even recall the conversation.” With that, he quickly stands and clears our plates. My gut tells me he’s trying to protect my feelings, and for the time being, I decide to drop the subject.

“So back to the cocktail party.” I steer the conversation back to a safer topic. “I need to go shopping. I can’t say I own a formal dress.”

He snaps his head to me, his blue eyes beaming. “I may have just had the best idea ever.”

I head over to the sink and start rinsing the dishes, stacking them in the dishwasher. “What?”

“How do you feel about New York City?” He wags his eyebrows at me.

“I don’t know. I’ve never been to New York City.” I dry my hands on a dishtowel and set it on the island as I search his eyes for answers.

“We can kill two birds with one stone,” he says excitedly, pulling his phone out of his back pocket. “My mom has been begging me to visit, and you can shop. We can go this weekend.”

Shopping? His mom? A trip to New York?

“Fine. Let’s do it.” I crack a smile.

“Pack your bags, Saige. I’m taking you to New York.”



We leave straight from the office on Friday and I grow excited as Holt’s driver pulls right up to the private jet at the airport just outside of Chicago. Holt helps me out of the backseat of the sedan and walks me to the plane owned by Jackson-Hamilton. As I step inside, I’m in awe. I expected it to be nice, but this is exquisite. Anything you could think of, this plane has. A bathroom with a shower, a bedroom, a conference table, a small entertainment area, and even a small dining area.

Holt greets the attendant and the pilots, then they talk briefly while I get lost in the plane’s luxuries. The velvety soft leather seats, the sandalwood table, and other wood accents have me planning ideas for other Jackson-Hamilton clients.

“Saige?” Holt says, pulling me from my thoughts.

“I’m sorry, what?” I glance at him, still hazy from taking in all the plane’s insane details.