Chapter 2

“Awhite jacket?” I ask Hamilton, who’s holding up said item for my inspection. “I just spent a decade in the Navy and now I’m supposed to wear a white jacket for this fucking gala? Are you trying to screw with my head?”

“Mister Jacobs felt that it would be good for you to stand out at tonight’s proceedings,” Hamilton says, unperturbed. He’s been with the family long enough that he’s comfortable, although he and I have just started to get on the same page since he was hired after I enlisted. “If you wish, I can—”

“No... no, Hamilton, I know you’re just doing your job.” I sigh, adjusting my black bowtie before holding my arms out. “At least it doesn’t have that high choker collar that my dress whites had.”

“Of course, sir,” Hamilton says, helping me with the fitted jacket. “And you’ll get to wear black pants as well. Better for any potential messes or confusion with a groom cake topper.”

I chuckle at his dry humor, glancing into the mirror to see his straight face. Honestly, it’s hard to tell sometimes when he’s being serious and when he’s joking. In the month that I’ve been home, I’m just starting to get back to ‘the block,’ as we used to call it in service, and I know I’ve got a lot on my mind.

Mostly, it’s the company. Dad’s basically wanted me to shadow him from sunup to sundown, doling out tidbits like he’s dying tomorrow and wants to download his brain into someone to keep the lights on. After making sure that wasn’t the case, that his health problems are nothing more than bad gas and needing a week’s vacation in Hawaii or something, I’ve been focusing on handling my own transition.

Beyond that, it’s Cody. I rarely see him, though he supposedly lives in this same gigantic house. I’ve stopped by his office at work, but he’s constantly unavailable. We’ve scheduled dinners for which he’s no-showed, and other than a handful of empty promises when I happen to catch him in the kitchen, I’ve had zero chances to figure out what’s going on with him.

I’m almost certain he’s only using the house as a laundry station and occasional drive-thru meal option, mostly staying in town somewhere.

Ever the rebel and quintessential playboy, I imagine he’s got a girlfriend in town where he stays, one whom maybe he isn’t comfortable having around the family. But that’s supposition, not solid intel.

But why he’d hide someone away, if there is, in fact, someone, is concerning.

And Cody’s work ethic, or lack thereof, I’m beginning to suspect, is also worrying. Was he unavailable because he was head-down, working hard, or not even in the office? Both are equal possibilities.

But if he’s working so diligently, why would our parents be so concerned? The scale tips away from Cody’s favor.

“Sir?” Hamilton asks, interrupting my thoughts. “Your cufflinks?”

“Of course, thank you,” I reply, taking them from him. They’re one of my personal mementos of my time in the Navy, small gold shields with the Navy crest engraved on them.

On a personal level, it’s probably the most annoying thing about living a life of luxury again. For a month, I’ve never had to wash a pair of socks or even pick them up off the floor. I know Mariella feels insecure because there’s so little she can do in my room, and no matter how many times I explain to her that years of Navy life means I’m used to cleaning my own stuff, I think she’s worried that I don’t like her.

“Hamilton?”

“Yes, sir?” he asks, looking professionally interested.

“Tonight’s event... what can you tell me about the movers and shakers in Roseboro?”

“The biggest of tonight’s attendees will be the host, Thomas Goldstone,” Hamilton says, his eyes tightening in approval at my question. “Your father is working with his company on some projects, and he is one of the richest men in the Pacific Northwest. You’ve seen the large gold tower in the middle of downtown?”

I nod, recalling what I’ve read both online and in internal reports about my father’s dealings with Thomas Goldstone. “Who else?”

“Abraham Dunn, sir. He’s more from the Portland area than Roseboro. I know very little else of him, other than that your mother is pleased to see his wife and daughter again.”

Isn’t that the truth? With Dad trying to info dump my brain, Mom has kept to her promise of trying to match me up despite my protests. She’s being sneaky and subtle about it, or at least she thinks she is, but I’m on to her games. Especially when all she’s talked about is the charming, beautiful Sabrina Cohen, daughter of Priscilla Dunn and stepdaughter of Abraham Dunn, who’s an up and coming player in their society circle.

I swear, according to Mom, Sabrina is more beautiful than Miss Universe, farts rainbows, and has been known to help nurse baby birds with broken wings back to health while working on world peace. I believe exactly zero-point-three percent of her assessment.

I finish getting ready, dismissing Hamilton to do the final tweaks myself, and then head downstairs where I see Cody in the great room, his tie loose around his neck as he pours a three-finger scotch.

“Cody, would you pour me one too? I’m not sure I’m ready for this dog and pony show tonight. You?” It’s an olive branch, a way to connect with the brother I fear I no longer know in the least.

What happened while I was gone?

He hands me a crystal tumbler, equally filled as his own, though I know I can’t down that much. I’m not a lightweight by any means, but we’re going out and it’ll be a full night of champagne, tiny appetizer bites, and banal chatter. It’s more dangerous than a firefight in Fallujah.

I need my wits about me.

Cody tosses half the liquid back in one shot, swallowing easily and sighing loudly.

“You okay, man? I’ve been trying to catch up with you, but I keep missing you,” I say, eyeing him. He looks bright-eyed, red-faced, and I wonder if that’s his first drink of the night, or perhaps his second or third?

“Been working my ass off, as always, not that anyone notices. I could use a bit of relaxation,” he says, tossing back the other half.

“Maybe try something less liquid for relaxation? Running, meditation, massage, maybe sex?” I venture, feeling him out to see if he’s got someone.

He scoffs, setting his tumbler down just a little too hard. “You don’t have a damn clue, do you? You have no idea the stress I’m under.”

I can’t hide the incredulous look as it washes over my face. “I don’t understand stress? Seriously?”

I really don’t get it. I can’t talk with him, or anyone, really, about the specifics of my missions, but he’s being ridiculous. “I’ve been responsible for a team of men on dangerous missions, have literally held a man’s head in my lap, promising he was going to be okay even though I could see his leg was blown off, and so much more. That’s stress. A project at work is pissant shit.”

It’s not the way I hoped this conversation would go, but I can’t stand by and let him wallow in the self-pity party he’s obviously started. Maybe a reality check will do him some good.

But of course, it doesn’t. Nobody wants to compare trauma and drama, least of all, me.

“Oh, fuck you, Mr. All-American Hero GI Joe,” Cody snarls. “You left and Dad put all of it on me. I’ve been handling it all, but is that enough for the old guy? Of fucking course not, so here you come to save the day.”

I can’t help the teenage eyeroll that comes out of habit from my younger days, but I try to offer a more adult pragmatic commentary as well. “Cut the problem child bullshit, Cody. If you need help at work, let me help you. If you don’t want help, then fix whatever’s wrong. Because something’s wrong.”

I pour the scotch down the drain of the wet bar, a tight restraint the only way I manage to not pointedly shoulder bump him out of the way like we’re stupid kids again. If I’m asking for more from him, I have to demonstrate it first. Be a leader by example, I remind myself. “A man controls his vices, not the other way around. Perhaps you should have a water before we go?”

Cody looks like he’s about to smart off again, but Mom and Dad come in, dressed to the nines, of course, and Cody bites back whatever he was going to say. “You look lovely, Mom,” I say, kissing her cheek. It’s not a lie. Mom’s always been beautiful to me.

Mom preens while Dad looks between Cody and me, but none of us says a word about the discussion we were just having. There are better ways to get him to pull his head out of his ass than calling him out in front of Dad.

The ride to the Goldstone building is quiet, Mom and Dad pointedly not saying anything about Cody’s scotch breath while I try to focus on anything but the fact that I’m walking into a setup. Mom will be in her element at this thing, and I’m predicting she’ll drag me around for introductions to everyone in the room.

The lobby of the building is modern and beautifully elegant, a large section of glass leading into an atrium of sorts where the gala has been set up. There’s a DJ and dance floor area, a swath of tables where I’m sure business deals will be discussed tonight, and a pleasantly large spread of delicious foods. I’ll hand it to Thomas Goldstone. He knows how to throw a party.

Everything is glitz and glam but not arrogantly so. I ask an hors d’oeuvres waiter what he’s passing and he tells me it’s PNW salmon on a round butter cracker. He laughs when I ask him if that’s the same thing as a Ritz and affirms that not only are they Ritz, but generic Ritz at that. I pop one in my mouth and groan at how good it tastes. I learned in the Navy that it doesn’t take brand names to make it good. In fact, the best chef I’ve ever met didn’t graduate from Le Cordon Bleu but from Naval culinary school.

It makes me wonder about the man, and more than what I’ve seen on paper. He’s a billionaire but doesn’t seem to suffer the affliction of entitlement so many of his wealth do. I’m interested whether I’ll get the opportunity to meet him tonight.

On the other hand, my first meeting with the Dunns goes about as I expected. Mom and Priscilla Dunn compliment each other’s dresses, discussing the upcoming resort season. For real, as if it matters that you get your tan in Hawaii or Catalina.

My first impression of Abe Dunn seems more shark-like than presidential. I don’t want to brand the man too quickly, but I get the feeling any business deal he’s a part of is substantially slanted in his favor. But overall, they seem cut from the same cloth as my parents, just a bit lower on the totem pole and ambitious, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Ambition is what fuels hard work, and hard work is what gets you to new horizons.

Sabrina, though, is everything my mother said she was and everything she didn’t say too. She’s beautiful in a vapid, bland way that seems almost repetitive in the room of socialites. Same heavily highlighted hair, same black dress with a slit up the thigh, same pink glossed lips, same willowy frame. Just same, same, same.

I could turn around and see five women just like her, and odds are I’d find another named Sabrina too. Mildly, I wonder if they manufacture them in a factory somewhere.

Cody interrupts the discussion of the latest tax implications of trade embargos, and I could kiss him for it. “I’m going to get a drink. Anyone need anything?”

I raise a finger, eager for the interruption. “I’ll come with you.”

Not surprisingly, Sabrina volunteers too. But we’re mere steps away when I feel Dad’s hand on my shoulder. “Lance, could you stay? You’ll want to hear this. I’m sure Cody can fetch you something.”

I see a spark flash through Cody’s eyes and feel the shot myself, though I’m not sure Dad intended it to be such a dismissive hit. Cody’s your son, not a Cocker Spaniel.

“Sure,” I tell him, apologizing to Cody with my eyes.

He walks away, and I doubt that I’ll see him again tonight. Although I’m not one for self-pity, after that dismissal, I wouldn’t be surprised if my brother channeled Achilles sulking in his tent... at least until someone catches his eye.

Sabrina returns to her mother’s side awkwardly, and I to Dad’s.

Before the conversation begins again, Thomas Goldstone takes the podium, tapping on the microphone. He’s wearing a classically fitted tux, tailored but not clingy. Even in the formal attire, though, you can tell he’s a fit man. I’ve learned how to assess people’s skills within a few seconds of seeing them.

The DJ stops the remixed Korean pop song he’s playing and Thomas speaks. “If I could have everyone’s attention? Thank you for coming tonight.”

His voice carries across the room and stops all conversation as eyes turn to him. Every glass lowers, every mouth closes as he looks out on the room, not as a tyrant, but with just the pure force of his charisma. He’s commanding, I’ll give him that.

Thomas holds out his hand, and a gorgeous woman with blonde hair joins him. She turns to look at him, stars shining obviously in her eyes, and I correct myself. She’s blonde, but there are a few chunks of purple and black woven in stylish streaks throughout her hair. She’s wearing a purple dress and some platform-style boots that look straight out of anime, or maybe anime porn. If I’d ever seen such a thing, which I most definitely would never admit to.

Thomas kisses the woman on the cheek and I realize this is the fiancée number-cruncher I’d heard so much about. The rumors are true. By looking, they don’t match in the least. But anyone with eyes can see they’re in love.

“First, how’s the food?” Thomas asks, smiling. “If you haven’t already, check out the cupcakes provided by the wonderful bakers at Cake Culture. Charlotte, they’re delicious. My only complaint is that I’ll be up all night on the bike to work off the half-dozen I’ve already eaten.” He pats his flat belly and the crowd laughs, and then he points to a tall tower of cupcakes I hadn’t noticed before. “Save me another chocolate one though!”

Everyone laughs again, and he goes on to thank the caterers, DJ, and event planner by name. Slick and impressive. He doesn’t have to hand out credit, but in doing so, not only does he give a boost to the local businesses supporting him, but they’re going to be more loyal to him in the future.

“Again, thank you all for coming to our Charity Gala. I’m sure you’re thinking, ‘Hey, Goldstone ‘charity’ is pretty vague. Why are we here?’ Let me explain. To me, charity is not simply writing a check and donating money. It is the seed that grows into hope, and every person has seeds they can sprinkle around their community, their city, their world. Those seeds can flourish, creating hope big enough to truly affect change. Now, some of us have more seeds than others.”

He pauses to look around the room, making sure everyone gets his meaning. Obviously, the attendees tonight are all wealthy, pillars of the community, both old money and new money.

“I look around this room, and I see a lot of potential. By using those seeds in truly influential, intelligent ways, we can create an entire movement of hope. For Roseboro and beyond.” He pauses dramatically, letting his words sink in.

He’s a good speaker, with a voice and manner that make you feel like he’s not talking to a crowd but instead talking to you individually. But my bullshit meter is going off because he still hasn’t discussed any specifics yet. I hope he’s got something more than a ‘give because you can’ card up his sleeve.

“After several long discussions with my wonderful fiancée, Mia, and then several more with my legal team, I’ve come to two conclusions. One, everyone has their cause that inflames their passion, that they feel is important to the world. The second is... I can’t do it all. So I’m issuing a challenge. A challenge to each and every one of you to join in a new Hope Initiative. Gathered in this room are not just the business leaders of the Portland-Roseboro-Seattle corridor, but community leaders, activists, and more. As much as we’ve already done to make our communities great, we can do more. We need to work together, discuss, debate, coordinate, and make things even better.”

The crowd looks around at one another, and I do the same. Looking closely, I can start to spot the differences. Not everyone is at home at this event like Mom and Dad. I can see the starry-eyed looks from folks in rented formal clothes who definitely don’t do galas like this on the regular. It makes me smile to see their excitement, remembering when I thought these things were a fun night of fanciness, not a dreary responsibility.

“Tonight, we begin a competition, though that word seems not truly in the spirit in which I hope to proceed. Let’s call it a... show-off show. Over the next three months, every business, group, and team in the region is challenged to come up with an innovative, impactful way to reach a portion of our community that needs help. You will implement it, work it, and report on it. At the end of three months, the winning project will be funded for the remainder of the year and receive a three-year grant of one million dollars per year afterward.”

The audience responds, a wave of people murmuring to their neighbor about Thomas’s announcement before an excited buzz starts to fill the room.

Thomas thanks everyone once again and leaves the podium. Media pushes forward, trying to get to Thomas and Mia, who smile congenially and answer questions.

“Wow,” Dad says.

“Impressive,” I agree. “The man’s putting his money where his mouth is.”

Abe stands a bit taller, like he’s trying to impress my dad. “It must be nice to do business with the Goldstones. You’re partnering Jacobs Bio-Tech with him, correct?”

But before Dad can reply, a redhead bumps his elbow, sending him jutting forward. Priscilla catches her husband as the redhead exclaims, “Oh, Dad, I’m so sorry! I just wanted to say hello and see if you’d like a cupcake?”

A cupcake? Ah, this must be the talented Charlotte that Thomas spoke of.

She turns to us, and my mouth goes dry. Forget the dime a dozen Stepford debutantes... this is a woman. “Forgive the interruption. So sorry.”

She’s blushing, pink turning her fair skin bright in blotches on her cheeks and chest. A chest that, I’m not afraid to admit, I’m drawn to admiring and exploring, wondering just how far that blush spreads over the lush mounds hidden beneath her dress.

“Charlotte, how clumsy can you be, girl?” Priscilla hisses, clearly not pleased.

Abe pats his wife’s hand, clearing his throat. “I’m fine, dear. So good to see you, honey.” He leans forward, kissing Charlotte on the cheek and introducing her. “Mr. Jacobs, my other daughter, Charlotte.”

She extends her hand to my father for a real handshake, not the limp-wristed kiss-it shake most socialites offer. But when she steps out from behind Mr. Dunn to fully join our circle, I get my first chance to look her over from head to toe.

She’s more than just a woman. She’s absolutely stunning. Her deep red hair is in a braid, with loose ends escaping the plait over her shoulder, her blue eyes sparkle in the neon strobe lights the DJ turned on, and she’s wearing a simple blue dress that doesn’t remotely fit the dress code for a formal event.

She looks ready for a date, not a gala. But the dress is doing amazing things for her, highlighting every curve and valley, making my palms itch to trace them myself.

Sabrina speaks, though it honestly feels like she’s murmuring from the far end of a hallway, as enraptured as I am with Charlotte. “Charlotte, seems your little cakes are popular. Well done.”

I can’t decide if she’s being snarky or congratulatory. There’s not enough to her tone to decipher. Or maybe not enough to her period to have an opinion one way or another.

“Thank you,” Charlotte says, but there’s no warmth to the sentiment. In fact, she sounds rather cool. I can definitely read her.

Charlotte’s eyes move to my mother, whom she also offers a handshake and introduction. Then her eyes meet mine... and time stops. At least for me it does, and I think for her too.

In all my life, I’ve seen so much of the evil, ugly, dirty side of the world that I’ve only kept my sanity by being a firm believer in the existence of a balancing force. That for every evil, there is an equal good. And while I’ve never felt it before, looking into Charlotte’s eyes, I swear that I can see the world brighten a little. She’s... what the world is meant for. She’s what I spent all those years fighting to protect—the few, the good, the innocent and beautiful.

A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth and her eyes lower, almost as if she’s shy.

I extend my hand, wanting to touch her if only to prove that she’s actually real and not some divine being walking among us mere mortals. “Lance Jacobs,” I say, noting that my voice has gone a bit husky, so I swallow thickly. “A pleasure.”

She smiles back. “Charlotte Dunn.”

The moment our fingers touch, I swear a spark jumps between us, and Charlotte seems to feel it too, judging by the speed with which she yanks her hand back and the way her eyes suddenly widen.

“Very nice to meet you,” I reply, my voice laced through with a sexual desire that is pure, animalistic, and absolutely authentic.

My dad clears his throat, and the prattle between my parents and the Dunns begins again. I ignore most of it, tossing in uninterested non sequiturs from time to time, but mostly watching Charlotte.

“You know, Lance, I finally realize who you remind me of,” Sabrina says, putting her hand on my forearm. It feels like she’s marking her territory, but I’m most definitely not hers in any way. “You look so much like Charlie Hunnam that it’s eerie. With those movie-star looks, although I’m not sure about the beard—”

She reaches up to touch my face and I pull back, utterly done with Sabrina’s attempts at seduction. “Excuse me... I should visit the men’s room.”

It’s a pretty weak excuse, especially since I’ve been eye-fucking Charlotte for the past five minutes. I don’t miss the twin scowls from Priscilla and her daughter, but I couldn’t give a damn right now.

I give Charlotte a pointed look as I leave the circle and enjoy the way her eyes widen in surprise. But from across the room, I watch and moments later, she makes her excuses and moves away from our parents.

I’m feeling pretty good about our chances as she moves through the crowd toward me, and a wild hope builds in my gut. Maybe my mother was on to something, after all. She just had the wrong sister.

But Charlotte takes a jaunt to the left, skipping me over in favor of heading back to the cupcake tower. She begins talking to Mia, not even once looking for me, and I can’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment.

I head to the bar, assessing my next move. And once I have a scotch and water in hand, I turn to find her again. Instead, a man to my right intercepts my attention. “Jacobs?”

I turn, surprised to see Jonathan Goldstone, an elite Air Force Pararescue Jumper who saved my ass in the hairiest shitstorm of my entire service. One of those situations that imprints itself on your soul... and now the man’s standing beside me, a grin on his face.

“Goldstone? Wait, are you one of these Goldstones?” I ask, only now putting it together. It’s not a common name, but not exactly uncommon either, so I’d never connected them.

He laughs, offering his hand, and we shake. “Yep, though our branches are a bit spread on the family tree. Second cousins, I think, or cousins once removed? Not sure how that works, but our dads are related somehow. What brings you here?”

“Jacobs Bio-Tech, my dad’s company, is partnering with Goldstone Health. I’m back to help with the family empire, I guess.”

Jonathan takes a sip of his drink, clear and smooth, so it could be water, vodka, or tequila, for all I know. “Thought you were a lifer for sure. Especially after that op, and you stayed in. I still remember the way you guys looked when we HELO’d in with med support. Like we were the second coming of Jesus, there to save your asses.” He spreads his hands wide, chin lifted and eyes looking heavenward, his voice sounding like a choir. “Aaahhhh.”

I smirk, never letting an Air Forcer get one up on me. “That’s not exactly how I remember that going, but I’ll let you keep your fairy tale. I’m out now. You? Figured you’d still be fighting the good fight.”

He shakes his head and finishes his drink. “Nope, after that Kandahar op, I was rotated back to training cadre. The brass thought I needed a break after the dust settled. I found my heart wasn’t in it, and going back to the Jumpers didn’t quite fit either, so I got out. Work the private sector now, security, surveillance, and investigations mostly. I could hook you up if you need a second career opportunity?”

I take a sip of my scotch, wishing I could take him up on his offer. I know I’m back home for one reason only—my family company. But dealing with their drama seems so pointless and useless when there are such bigger issues in the world. It’d be nice to work with other people who’ve seen the impact on a broader scale too, not my brother whose biggest concern is an arbitrary deadline. Deadline? I think. No, a real deadline is making pickup before the bad guys actually kill you.

“That sounds intriguing, but I can’t take you up on that now. Family shit. You understand?” I say, and Jonathan nods. “But thanks for the offer. I’ll keep it in mind, if that’s okay?”

He hands me a business card and I’ll admit to being impressed by the heavyweight, embossed white cardstock. The engraving is a discreet, professional black Jonathan Goldstone — For Personal Matters and lists a Seattle phone number. “Very spy of you,” I tell him, slipping the card into my breast pocket as Jonathan tilts his head, not saying a word.

I wonder what exactly it is he does. I know a lot of guys go the mercenary route after getting out, and while Pararescue has the skills to do that successfully, Jonathan doesn’t have the personality or vibe that screams soldier for hire. He’s still sharp as a tack, but there’s the same look in his eyes I saw years ago. He wants to save a life, not take one.

After shooting the shit a bit more, he excuses himself, and I make an immediate beeline for Charlotte. I didn’t forget about her while I caught up with an old buddy and actually used the time with Jonathan to watch her more, seeing her light up as she talks about the cupcakes to people as they try to decide between the delicious-looking treats.

I approach the table like I’m being drawn to her by gravity, locking Charlotte in place with my gaze. I swear the crowd parts for me to get there faster, and as I get close, Charlotte’s eyes turn to me, and she freezes, unable to look away. Part of her looks like she’s scared, wanting to be saved, for someone to pull her away. From me.

But I’m the one interested in sweeping her away, and I certainly won’t let someone else get in my way now that it’s just the two of us.

Careful, man. Don’t scare her.

“Hi again. I hear great things about your cupcakes. Which do you recommend?” I ask politely, giving her a moment to catch her breath. Because I can see that she’s not breathing, her lips parted but nothing moving past the pink fullness.

My words unlock her, and she smiles, transformed into a sassy spitfire right before my very eyes. “They’re all quite delicious. Just depends on what you’re in the mood for.”

I can’t help the obvious punchline, looking at her hair as I ask, “Do you have any red velvet?”

A laugh bursts out hard and loud, and she slaps her hands over her mouth. “Oh, my God, does that kind of shit actually work on women?”

I smirk. “You’d be surprised. Though I’m a little rusty. I was a little busy over the past few years in the Navy.”

Her left eyebrow jumps up. “First swing, cheesy. Second swing, guilt trip with the soldier gambit thrown in. You’re about to strike out, Mr. Jacobs.”

I like her. I like that she’s calling me on my shit, though my ‘guilt trip’, as she called it, wasn’t intended as such, but rather as an honest explanation for my lack of game. “Maybe I should just play it safe and ask you to dance then? Harder for my mouth to get me in trouble there.”

I point back at the dance floor with my thumb, noting the crowd that’s dancing to a 90s hit and getting low, low, low with their apple-bottom jeans. It’s an odd disconnect for the upper-crust tuxedo and gown group, but somehow, it feels comfortable.

But Charlotte shakes her head, popping my bubble. “As much as I’d like that, I’m not here as a guest. I’m working.” She gestures to the huge tower of cupcakes.

But like an angel sent from above, Mia shows up at Charlotte’s side. “Hi, Mia Karakova, and you are?” I swear I hear her mutter under breath . . . besides talking to my best friend.

“Lance Jacobs. Nice to meet you. Thank you for inviting Jacobs Bio-Tech to tonight’s gala. The Hope Initiative sounds like an innovative way to implement real change.” See, with other people, I can pull some slick shit together. I’ve been by Dad’s side and a military officer. I have a brain in my head that can carry a conversation. Except when all the blood is rushing south, like it does with Charlotte.

Mia’s face brightens, and I realize just how threatening her previous scowl had been. Apparently, I passed a test. She talks a bit about the goals of changing Roseboro for the better, and I listen politely, though my eyes are basically burning holes in Charlotte’s dress the whole time. Charlotte is blushing, and I swear almost twirling in the dress, giving me different angles from which to appreciate her.

“How do you know my girl, Charlotte?” Mia asks, breaking the mutual eye fuck Charlotte and I are participating in.

“We just met. Our parents seem to know each other,” I reply. “I was asking her to dance as you came up, but she seems to think she’s unable to leave her post.”

Mia whirls on Charlotte, virtually shoving her my way. “Go, scoot, get your groove thang on, girl. I’ll hand out cupcakes like I did the cookies.”

Charlotte laughs, slightly nervous, but I can hear her desire. She wants to dance with me. “Should I warn Thomas that you’re about to get on the table and start chunking cupcakes? One for youuu . . . and one for youuu . . .” She drawls out the words, feigning tossing a football. “Gonna have frosting everywhere.”

Mia’s response is a finger pointed at Charlotte and a shaking head. “Don’t you dare warn him.”

I sincerely hope she’s kidding, but either way, I’m taking the opening. Taking Charlotte’s hand, I lead her to the dance floor and we begin to move. It’s a fast song, something I’ve never heard before, so I can’t take her in my arms, but I do let one hand trace down to her hip as we sway in time with each other.

I feel like there are eyes on us from every corner of the room. When I take Charlotte’s hand and twirl her, I do chance a glance toward our parents, and while our dads are deep in conversation, our moms are diametrically different in their responses.

My mom looks like she’s floating on air, hands clasped beneath her chin, and I can almost feel her hopefulness that maybe I’m not a lost cause for grandchildren. Priscilla, however, looks like she would kill me with her bare hands, painfully and slowly. Sabrina stands at her side, looking petulant, with her bottom lip actually poking out in a toddler-worthy pout.

But none of that matters when the music changes and I get to pull Charlotte in closer. “Tell me about you, Charlotte Dunn.”

I don’t know how much time we have, and I want to know every single thing she’ll share.

She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, her body still pressing against me. “Why? I’m just the redheaded stepchild. Pretty sure you’re supposed to be fawning all over my stepsister, Sabrina.”

I smirk, purposefully keeping my eyes locked on Charlotte’s baby blues. “I think I’m right where I’m supposed to be.” I twirl her, watching raptly as her dress flares out slightly. “Why cupcakes?” I ask when she’s pressed against me once more.

“Why not cupcakes? They’re delicious little bites of happiness.” Her smile is genuine, and I mirror it, infected with her obvious excitement. “But I don’t just make cupcakes. I also makes cakes, cookies, pies, and muffins. Basically, if it’s baked, I make it. Cake Culture, that’s my bakery, is still in the baby stages with the same type of long hours and singular focus as a newborn. But it’s my everything. God, I do sound like a new mother. Wanna see pictures?” she jokes.

“Sounds like a labor of love. I admire the commitment and guts it takes to open a new business,” I reply, impressed with her.

“You have no idea. I quit my job for this and put every single penny I have into it, plus some, to get it off the ground. Scary as fuck, but so far, so awesome.” As she speaks about her bakery, I can feel her relaxing in my arms, the passion for her work palpable in every word.

“I’m in somewhat of a similar situation. For a long time, I figured I was a career Navy man, but plans change and here I am. Back home for the family.”

We continue talking, but the words start to drift off as the DJ rolls into another slow, sexy, damn near pushing the line for a gala like this song. This one has a thick baseline, and when he changes the strobes to a deep red and blasts the fog machine, the whole dance floor’s vibe changes to something hot and sultry.

I expect Charlotte to pull away from me at any moment, but she doesn’t. Instead, she links her hands behind my neck and moves in even closer. I know she can feel my cock thickening in my slacks, but I’m not willing to pull away from her, even to be gentlemanly. It’s been too long and she feels too good.

I slide my hands around her lower back, pressing her against me, pinning my cock between us, and Charlotte gasps, her eyes popping to mine. “Holy shit.”

I can see the lust burning in her eyes, can feel the heat racing along her skin. “Won’t say I’m sorry for being so affected by you. You’re a siren, Charlotte, luring me in with every word, every curve, every . . . thing.”

I see her soft smile, pleased that she’s responding to me just as much. We move like that for an eternity, or maybe it’s minutes. Either is just as likely because I’m living fully in every moment I’m touching her.

She spins in my arms, putting her back to my chest, and she guides my hands around her waist, placing her own over mine. From this vantage, I can see the rise and fall of her breasts, even in the conservatively scoop-necked dress. I wonder if her nipples are pebbled beneath it and go in for a closer look.

Pressing my lips to her neck, I breathe her in. Sugar. Vanilla. Sweetness but with something deeper, darker too. Whispering in her ear, though no one could hear anything I say over the music, “You are making it very hard to control myself. We’re in a roomful of people, some of whom are likely well aware that your lush ass is cradling my hard cock right now and that I desperately want to slide my hands up a few inches to cup your breasts and tease your nipples.”

I’m being aggressive, more so than I usually am, but something about Charlotte calls to a baser, primal level of me. And to be honest, she’s not shying away from it. In fact, I can feel her arching, pressing her ass against me and lifting her chest like she wants me to feel them too.

I’m contemplating asking her to ditch this gala and find the nearest horizontal surface—or hell, a vertical surface, anywhere without an audience including our parents—when a man in a black suit interrupts.

“Sorry, Miss Dunn. Miss Karakova needs you immediately.” Something about the man seems familiar. Not that I’ve seen him before, but in his stance, his speech. He’s former military, I’d bet my trident on it.

I wonder if he’s one of Jonathan’s guys, which would make sense that Thomas would hire family for his security detail.

His words break the spell, and Charlotte-the-Siren disappears in favor of Charlotte-the-Cupcake Genius. Unfortunately for my aching groin, while she’s just as beautiful, she’s focused on something besides our bodies right now.

“What’s wrong?”

The man’s eyes flick toward the tower, and I see that Mia is indeed on the table, handing out cupcakes like a birthday party mother, forcing two and sometimes three to everyone within reach. Even from here, I can read her lips, “Sooooo goooood.”

Charlotte lurches away, already having forgotten me. But she only gets a few steps away before I grab her hand, stopping her flight. “Charlotte?”

She smiles, but it’s tinted with regret at the edges. She steps back to me, pressing her lips to mine. She’s soft, sweet, and gone too soon. “It was really nice meeting you, Lance. I’ve gotta go, sorry!”

She disappears into the crowd, and I’m left wondering what to do. I struggle to see her red hair through the sea of black sequins and tuxedos, but I lose her. For a moment, I sag, looking down at the red carpet that only reminds me of her.

Something glints against the red, and I bend to pick it up. It’s a small bracelet with a C engraved on a tiny circle, like a monogram. It’s not fancy, more a simple gold micro link, but I know as soon as I pick it up that it’s hers.

The lights flash, making the metal gleam, and I wrap my fingers around the memento, remembering how she felt pressed against me, how her eyes lit up when she spoke, and how her sassy mouth made me want to taste her teases.

Damn it. I’m going to have to tell my mother she’s right, and she’s never going to let me live this down.

I do want one of Abe Dunn’s daughters.

Just not the one she expected.

I want Charlotte Dunn.