3. Hayden

THREE

HAYDEN

Being a playboy is an art form with a strict set of rules.

Rule #1: A playboy must always show up late on the first date.

Why, you ask?

While pissing off my date before I've even sat down at the dinner table seems counterintuitive, a playboy must never appear overeager. Because his time is valuable, and this is just another date for him. Which is exactly why it's seven o'clock on the dot, the time when my date with Juliana should've begun, and I'm here, seated behind a bar, sipping a gin and tonic.

Cherry oak and chesterfield sofas dominate the moody lounge, located in the lobby of the Mandarin Oriental hotel. Soft chatter trickles in through the double doors, which allows for a perfect view of the well-dressed guests who pass through. Not only do rooms here fetch well over two-grand a night, their list of amenities is nothing to scoff at. Including a spa and wellness facility, high-end shops and designer boutiques, as well as a Michelin-star rooftop steakhouse with panoramic views.

A view Juliana is certainly enjoying. Alone.

Unbuttoning my suit jacket, I pull out my phone, intending to re-read the bizarre text conversation I had with Juliana last night. Or, should I say, with the person who I thought was Juliana. My jaw ticks at the sight of the first message that was in the preview box the moment we matched.

Juliana: I shouldn't share these pics, but I'm having a hard time choosing between red or black ;) ...

Even though this time I know what to expect when I click into the messages, blood rushes to my groin all the same.

Juliana: Gotcha! Goodness, what kinda girl do you think I am?

Me: The kind who deserves a spanking.

I was just asking for a verbal lashing—she is my best friend's little sister, after all, who has always been the reluctant recipient of my most crude comments. I spare her no mercy, only so I can savor her incredulous reactions. And highly sought-after attention.

But before her next text arrived, I had countless questions and zero answers. First and foremost, why did we match in the first place? That would mean she had already right-swiped on me, after seeing my profile. And given how things left off the last time we interacted, I'd wager that was a very low chance. Which could only leave one possibility...

She was right-swiping every guy without looking.

To put it plainly, once I had that realization, I was no more fun at that strip club. Until I received the next text.

Juliana: Duly noted. Before we chat more, I should let you know that this isn't really Juliana. This is Mei, her best friend. I manage her account and set up blind dates for her.

See what I mean? Bizarre.

Bizarre, but... the miracle I needed.

A way of trapping Juliana into actually speaking with me—in person. All I needed to do was convince this Mei character that I was the right guy for Juliana. And I did, easily. Went above and beyond. Why? Because I know everything there is to know about Juliana Brooks. Her taste in music. Her hobbies. What makes her tick. What makes her laugh or cry or roll her eyes. And the kind of guy she thinks she's interested in. So, I cherry-picked my answers accordingly, assuming her friend would connect the dots.

I landed a blind date within the hour.

It's only now that I'm starting to wonder how many other blind dates she has planned... Breathing sharply through my nostrils, I force down the rest of my drink, noting the leggy blonde approaching the bar. When she sits two seats down from mine, offering me a side glance, I decide to familiarize myself with her.

In less than five minutes, she's halfway in my lap on one of the sofas.

"I'm a model and a part-time actress," she says, running a manicured hand down the front of my suit. When I answer with an uninterested mhmm, she inches closer, the hem of her dress scooting higher up her thighs. "What about you?"

Thinking of a response, I sip my second gin and tonic, the alcohol warming my insides. Knowing I don't intend on entertaining her—or any woman—long enough for them to sniff out my falseness, I lie through my teeth, keeping things vague. "I work in finance. Trading crypto, primarily. I'm a numbers guy."

She sighs in my ear. "Wow, you must be really successful."

I graze a finger along her thigh, earning a shiver. "Tell me more about yourself."

She lights up at the attention—and away she goes. "Well, I was scouted in my hometown when I was fifteen at a fair. I started out locally, doing smaller print shoots and catalogs. Then I moved to New York and began walking in runway shows..."

Her voice drifts off into the background of my consciousness, which is too preoccupied with Juliana. I imagine her sitting at our table, dressed in her best, waiting anxiously, debating whether she's been stood up. No, no, he'll show, she tells herself, her knee bouncing restlessly, but with every passing minute, that confidence wanes. So much so, that when I do finally show and provide no explanation for my lateness, she'll realize I have the upper hand and that she'll need to work harder to earn my attention.

I check my watch. Eight minutes past seven. I'll give it another five. I really want her to be—

Like a sixth sense, my gaze gravitates toward the exit. Through the double doors, I spot a striking woman in blue. Subtle hints of auburn mark her otherwise dark locks. Her dress is modest, but with fabric tight enough to reveal a figure I'd undoubtedly drop to my knees for. Unable to tear my eyes from her, I watch her march across the marble, powerful and full of determination. But then... disbelief holds me hostage, her every step sinking my backside farther and farther into the couch.

"...my agency booked me a suite for the night. I have a shoot nearby. Buy me another drink, and I may just invite you to join me..."

Juliana passes by the double doors, aiming for the hotel entrance, oblivious to my existence. My heart contracts... stuttering in its rhythm... then springs back to life, like the first breath following an electric shock. I shoot to my feet, practically dumping the blonde onto the ground.

"Ow!" she grunts. "No need to be a jer—"

Without so much as an apology—not even a glance in her direction—I bolt after Juliana, the rest of the woman's remark drowned out by the blood raging in my ears.

I weave between sofas and dining tables and bargoers, nearly tripping over my two feet out the double doors. Like the release of a bucket of water over my head, the lobby's brightness blasts through my senses, sobering me up the instant my vision refocuses. Only to watch the revolving doors swallow up my temptress in blue.

Shit.

More than a few finely dressed business types shoot me strange looks as I book it across the polished marble. Alone in the achingly slow revolver, my breath puffs among the silence. I swipe a quick hand through my locks and button my suit jacket, searching for Juliana through the glass, to no avail. And once I'm out on the sidewalk, it's even worse.

Much the typical Friday night in The City That Never Sleeps, hordes of people bustle to and from, creating for me a maze in which Juliana—the solution to all my misfortunes—resides. Reckless, I dive nose first into the sea, swimming with and then against the current, my head bobbing and turning like some aimless plank of driftwood. Until I spot my life raft, one street over, crossing an intersection with her hands tucked beneath her armpits.

My heart jumps to my throat, propelling my legs forward in a mad dash. In mere seconds, I've crossed the walk at the last possible moment, narrowly missing a collision with a passing taxi. "Juliana, wait!"

She freezes, her shoulders going rigid. I gain more ground, coming right up behind her, embarrassment nipping at me as I huff and puff in her ear. "Jul—" Her legs snap into motion, resuming her purposeful pace.

Seriously? She didn't even look at me. Heaving a sigh, I chase her bouncy curls once more.

"Oh, Jules, I wasn't even—"

She twists on her heel, a deadly whirlwind of contempt and hostility. Closing the distance between us, she jabs a finger into my chest. And God , I can't help but love the way she tilts her head back—and back some more—to meet my eyes, even when there's hate swirling in hers.

"Don't call me that."

I don't hide my grin, taking her hand in mine. "Oh, Jules." I repeat her nickname slowly, like I'm melting a delectable chocolate on my tongue, something savage in me laughing when her pupils visibly dilate. "No need to be like that. Don't tell me you're still mad about—"

She rips her hand away. "I'm not."

Clearly.

"You don't look surprised to see me."

She scoffs. "Want to know why?"

"Enlighten me," I purr, still close enough to smell the mint on her breath.

"I knew the instant my date was a no-show, that it could only be you."

"I was running late."

"Sure, you were." She rolls her eyes, returning an appropriate amount of distance between us. "Why trick me into a date, just to show me you're the exact same guy you've always been? You could've saved me a trip and called instead."

Ouch . Seems someone's grown some teeth.

"Don't act like you haven't been ignoring my calls for..." I tap my chin, feigning as if I'm lost in thought. Even though I know the answer by heart, maybe down to the exact day. "About five years."

She looks me dead in the eye. "Why would I pick up? I have nothing to say."

Genuine hurt nips at me. The size of a sliver, but it's there. Only for my self-importance to stride in like a smooth storm, who yearns to inform my best friend's little sister of her newfound importance to me. One that's greater than inflating my ego—although, a much-welcomed by-product—but of the freedom she can provide me. Of our symbiotic relationship she doesn't know she'll soon enter into willingly.

Sinking my hands into my pant pockets, I hit her with my trademark, smoldering gaze. The kind that would have ninety-nine percent of New York City's female population's knees trembling. "Let me take you back to our table, and I'll buy you a drink."

But, as I've always known, my dearest Jules is the one percent.

"Un-be-lievable." She enunciates each syllable, then twists, intending to leave me in the dust.

Now, for my trump card. My Ace in the hole. The wildcard on the flop that'll have her eating out of the palm of my hand...

"Don't you want your little game to land a feature in this year's DreamScape?"