Chapter Two

Allison was late for work, a frequent problem she had. She always blamed the subway, and her boss always knew she was full of shit. She couldn’t help it. She’d never been a morning person, and paired with the fact that she hated her job with the heat of a thousand burning suns, it was hard to get motivated to go to work. This particular Monday, she had realized at the last minute there was a stain on her dress that the dry cleaner hadn’t been able to get out. Red wine. So she’d had to change. Which meant she’d had to change her shoes, her handbag, and her lipstick color.

So she was ten minutes late and her boss, who, she would like to point out, was actually younger than her, ripped her a new one. Allison had been at the classic boutique clothing store at Rockefeller Center for five years.

Chantel had been there for one year and was all of twenty-two, and somehow she was the manager. It was so unnecessary, because despite being late since Chantel’s tenure had begun, until then, Allison had been a model employee. She’d thought she was next in line and had busted her ass.

Now she found her ability to give a shit slipping further and further away on a daily basis, since a promotion was pretty much out of the question.

What had hard work gotten her? A fetus for a boss and zero raises in the last eighteen months.

On her lunch break she checked her bank account on her phone and discovered that she had been optimistic about the thirty-eight dollars she’d thought she had in her account. In fact, she had exactly nineteen dollars and forty-seven cents. With four days until payday. She ate water for lunch.

Even pretended to chew it, ignoring the hunger pains while deciding the preceding night’s optimism had been premature. She was no longer feeling lucky.

It was all her own fault. She could acknowledge that. As she leaned up against the building outside, grabbing a lungful of not-so-fresh New York air, she knew that she had been afraid in the early days in the city. Afraid to take chances. She had settled into this job and had spent beyond her means.

She had a large student loan debt for a degree she wasn’t using, and she had been a fairly indulged kid and teen in Connecticut who had never learned to manage money properly. Her complaints, while the truth, were just that—

complaints.

Her life wasn’t a tragedy.

That didn’t mean being broke in the most expensive city in America sucked any less hard.

Something had to change, she just didn’t know what.

After getting rained on during the walk home from the subway, her hair frizzing instantly, and the damp cold seeping into her bones, she wanted to duck into the coffee shop and get a latte, but decided against it. She shouldn’t have spent fifteen bucks on lottery tickets the night before in a flush of Moscow Mule- and Marco Lucky-inspired optimism.

She should at least check the damn tickets before tossing them in the pile of Money She Shouldn’t Have Spent. Someday she would learn her lesson, though it seemed today wasn’t that day. Grumpy and cold, she walked the three flights up to her apartment, and fought the urge to sigh.

The apartment she was going to be kicked out of in a month with her roommates all off and living with their guys. She hadn’t even addressed the issue of getting a new place, because she didn’t have the money for a security deposit. The fact that Jamie had offered for her to move in with her and Jonathon showed just how truly pathetic she was. As was the fact that she was going to be forced to accept that offer, at least short term, because she didn’t know where else to go.

Again, no one to blame but herself and her inability to save money or resist cashmere.

In her ninety percent empty apartment, since her friends had removed their various furniture pieces, she sat on the coffee table that she owned, and fished the lottery ticket out of her purse. Using her phone, she checked the state lottery website for winning numbers. She glanced at her ticket.

Then back to the page. Then back to the ticket. Then almost had a heart attack. At the very least she stopped breathing for a good thirty seconds and almost blacked out, spots dancing in front of her eyes.

“Shut your face,” she said to no one. “Shut your fucking face.”

She had won. She had the goddamn New York State lottery. A thousand dollars a day for life. The rest of her life, which meant after taxes something in the neighborhood of… her brain froze. She was still in too much shock.

Math was out of the question. In the neighborhood of a lot of money. It was a lot of money. And she was only twenty-seven. That was a long-ass time to be collecting.

She could keep this apartment. She could fill it with furniture. She could pay off her cell phone bill. She could buy Louboutins and a Louis purse.

She could pay off that crippling student loan debt and she could pay her parents back on their poor investment into her college education that she had not used. She could actually afford to buy her friend Mandy, who was due to give birth in ten days, a baby gift. Then a christening gift. Whatever gifts she or anyone ever needed for the rest of eternity.

Holy shit.

Allison’s hand was shaking. The numbers blurred. She needed someone else to look at this and make sure she wasn’t totally delusional and somehow misreading numbers. She wasn’t dyslexic, but with her luck, somehow she’d developed it five minutes ago and was reading a 13 as 31.

She called Jamie, jumping off the end table to pace in the living room, her heels echoing on the floor.

“Hello?”

“I won the lottery!” Her voice cracked on a hysterical shriek.

“What? Very funny. I know you think Beckwith is nuts, but you shouldn’t tease him. He means well.”

“No, I’m serious. I bought that ticket last night with fifteen bucks I shouldn’t have been spending and I just checked the ticket, and Jams, I won. I actually won. Three hundred and sixty-five thousand dollars a year. I feel like I’m going to faint. I need you to meet me and confirm I’m reading this thing right.”

“Seriously?” Jamie sounded as incredulous as Allison felt.

“As a heart attack, baby.”

Jamie started screaming in excitement. “Woo! Woo hoo!” Allison pulled the phone away from her ear.

Jonathon’s voice was suddenly on the line, saying, “Ali, what the hell is going on? Why is Jamie screaming? She is wheezing and I can’t get a straight answer.”

Jonathon was Caroline’s brother, and Allison had known him since grade school. He knew that she had been raised upper middle class, and with an expectation of actually using the advantages she had been given.

Jonathon had, and he was a millionaire. Now she was too. Even if she hadn’t worked for it. “I won the lottery, Jack. I won the lottery, for real, no joke, no playing around. I have the ticket in my hand, and I want you and Jamie to meet me at Stir in like twenty minutes so one, you can tell me I’m

not seeing things, and two, so we can celebrate with martinis the size of our heads.”

“You’re serious?” He sounded astonished. “No one wins the lottery.”

“Someone does twice a week and today that winner is me.” For a brief second she had the feeling that she didn’t deserve it, but then she banished that thought. She would have the freedom to do something positive with her life. This was her chance to get out of her shallow and unsatisfying rut and figure out how to be a useful and productive citizen. In designer shoes. It wasn’t selfish to still want the designer shoes, was it?

Hell no.

An hour later, Allison had a slight buzz already, though whether it was just from the alcohol or the fact that her life had completely and utterly changed, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was that Jonathon, Jamie, and Caroline had all verified that she had the correct numbers and she had won the lottery. She felt slightly high, dizzy, excited, her heart racing unnaturally. It felt like she was tripping, a lot like that ill-fated experience in college when a boyfriend had given her weed laced with acid. Then, she had wanted it to go away. Now, she wanted it to never end.

The atmosphere in the bar was loud and lively. Jamie had told the bartenders, and after they had given Allison a shot on the house in congrats, Allison had bought a round for her friends and the whole staff with her credit card. So she was squeezing her available credit tightly, so what? In a few days she’d never have to worry about running out of money. It was a foreign concept to think that way. To spend and not have to feel guilty about it. She loved the ability to be generous, to spread her happiness and good fortune around the bar in the form of liquor for everyone.

Even Mandy and her husband Damien had shown up to help celebrate, and Allison felt surrounded by love and support. Everyone was genuinely happy for her, and that really touched her heart. She wasn’t the best friend.

Emotions made her uncomfortable. Her parents had never talked about anything. They were the quintessential Connecticut family who believed in sweeping everything under the rug and pretending they were perfect. The smudges were on the inside, never the outside. So she knew that she panicked when life got emotional and messy, and she had a bad tendency to run away. She was working on that.

But it made her super happy to see and feel that she was loved, because she loved her friends tremendously and was so grateful to them. “A toast,”

she said, raising her glass. She was drinking champagne, because duh.

She’d won the lottery. What else was more appropriate? “First of all, I want to say thank you to Beckwith.” She smiled at him. He looked smug and slightly drunk. “I would have never bought the ticket if it wasn’t for you, my friend, so I owe you, big time.”

“I accept checks or cash,” he said, grinning. “And handbags.”

“There’s a Chanel with your name on it,” she told him, sincerely. “The classic.”

He fanned himself. “Not necessary, but hell if I’ll say no.”

She laughed. “Also, thank you to Jamie and Jonathon, who were willing to house me when there is no way in hell they actually want me living with them. I appreciate the offer and I’m thrilled to say that it will no longer be necessary. Tomorrow I’m signing another year-long lease on our existing roomies’ apartment. For just me. I’m going to be a grownup with my own apartment, can you stand it?”

It boggled the mind, frankly.

“We wouldn’t have minded,” Jamie assured her. “But we’re happy for you.”

Jonathon had his arm around Jamie’s waist, and he said emphatically,

“Thank you, New York state lottery.” He gave her a grin to show he was teasing.

Though she had no doubt he was in fact, quite serious. His apartment was big, but not that big. They were in New York.

“And thanks to Caroline, for being my oldest friend, who didn’t hold it against me that I forced her to pierce her tongue at twelve, getting her in massive trouble with her parents.” Caroline’s husband Brad wasn’t there, but that wasn’t surprising. In the three months since Caro’s wedding, Allison had seen Brad exactly no times. It was worrisome, but Caroline refused to admit anything was other than perfect. Allison knew better. It was also a Connecticut thing, keeping up the facade.

“As well as thanks for Mandy and Damien for making the trek to our hood and braving the rain and the risk of early labor. Love you, guys, and I can’t wait to meet the baby. Cheers!” She clinked glasses and everyone went around the table and there were hugs and smiles and Allison’s glass being mysteriously empty yet again.

“Another bottle, please,” she told the waitress.

Because she was rich, bitches.

Bring on the bubbly.

Marco knew it was stupid to go to the same bar he’d been in the night before expecting to see the brunette. No one went to the same bar two nights in a row. Except for him, apparently, and Norm from the sitcom Cheers.

When he walked in, the atmosphere was different. It was loud for a Monday night, a boisterous, cheerful crowd. There seemed to be some sort of celebration going on, and he realized immediately it centered around the brunette from the night before. The second he spotted her he felt that kick of lust again, tight and low in his groin. It hadn’t been a fluke last night or something causing him to mistake her for a woman who could get under his skin. Nope. She was definitely under his skin. Nice and deep, stroking.

Hoping for a few minutes of anonymity, he shifted to the left quickly, taking a table in the corner away from the windows. It was a shadowed area of the bar, and he wasn’t between the brunette and the bar, so she wasn’t as likely to look his way. He studied her. She was wearing tight leather pants and boots that went up beyond her knees, showing off her outrageously long legs. She had on a chunky red sweater and wore massive earrings. Her hair was pulled back again, very sleek, her makeup flawless. She reminded him of what he deemed the classic New Yorker. Chic but not flashy. In one hand was a glass, in the other was a champagne bottle.

Her cheeks were flushed with excitement and probably booze. She was smiling and laughing and so were her friends. The transgender man he recognized from the night before, along with the redhead, who now had a man with his arm around her. There was a cool blonde and a pregnant woman with a husband or boyfriend with her. It looked like a fun celebration, friends hanging out. He found himself embarrassingly envious.

If he tried to do that with his bandmates, it would turn into an all-night boozefest where they spent thousands of dollars and accumulated fans and groupies. It would be a show, versus just chilling with friends.

Marco had exactly one friend from his pre-fame days that he trusted with his life, and he knew they could hang out and the celebration would be genuine, but that couldn’t happen in public, nor was it the same as having a group of friends. He hated himself for wanting what he couldn’t have. It wasn’t fair of him to ask the universe to give him any more than it already fucking had. He could just picture the powers that be processing requests

and being like, “This asshole already has gobs of money and fame. Now he wants blood brothers? Denied.” They’d rubber-stamp the shit out of his request, he was sure of it. No one got everything they wanted.

A waitress had spotted him. She came over, her smile bright. “Hi, can I get you anything?”

“Can I have a ginger ale, please?” He nodded to the brunette’s table.

“What is going on there? A party or something?” It was a rude question, and frankly none of his business, but she didn’t seem to think he was totally out of line.

She just glanced back and said, “Oh. Allison won the lottery. Can you believe that? Who wins the lottery?”

That surprised him. “Wow. I don’t know. Someone, I guess. Girls named Allison. Is she the one in the red sweater?” He was pushing his luck, but he just wanted to know if that was her. If she was the Allison. The lottery winner.

“Uh huh.” The waitress, a tattooed pinup style dresser, gave him a longer stare. “Hey, aren’t you…” Then her cheeks flushed. “Sorry, never mind.”

“I’m Marco Lucky, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he said.

Her eyes lit up. “OMG, I thought so! God, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t geek out on you, but I got your first album when I was fourteen and I listened to it all the time. But I bet you hear that all the time.”

He smiled at her because he did hear that, but it honestly never stopped amazing him that people enjoyed his music. That he got paid to play the guitar and sing. Her reminding him of that was perfect timing. “I appreciate that a lot, actually. I’m glad you’ve enjoyed my music.” He checked, but she wasn’t wearing a name badge or anything. It wasn’t that kind of bar.

“What’s your name?”

“Sandy.” She was blushing now. “OMG, I’ll shut up and get your drink.

Wait, what did you order? I forgot already.”

“Ginger ale.”

“Right. God, what a crazy night.”

“Thanks, Sandy.”

So Allison the brunette had won the lottery. He wondered how much and what that meant for her life. He was curious about her, more curious than he should be. He was also happy for her, which was ludicrous. He didn’t fucking know her. How did he know she deserved to win the lottery?

Maybe she was a horrible human being who kicked dogs and stole from her mother.

Which meant the real question was how did he get to know her?

Because he wanted to get her know her. He wanted to talk to her, see her eyes sweep over him in a challenge, listen to her mock and tease him. He wanted to strip her clothes off and run his hands over her body in exploration. He wanted to indulge himself and sink his cock into her moistness, knowing that her cries of ecstasy were genuine, were because he drove her wild with desire. And when she went down on her knees in front of him and sucked him off, he wanted to know it was because she enjoyed the power, and wanted to drive him crazy. Not because she wanted to say she blew a rock star.

He should have denied being Marco Lucky. He should have just said he looked like him when she had called him out. Sensing that he was about to go into a brooding, dark place, he debated getting the fuck out of the bar while he still could. He felt the urge to order a vodka on the rocks. That would only make it worse. He also thought about going back to his apartment and trying to write, losing himself in music. He worked out a lot that way. But he didn’t want to leave just yet, not until Allison had seen him.

It was vain and ludicrous. Here he’d been lamenting the excess attention from women, and now he was seeking it out? Being sober hadn’t totally helped him figure out his shit. It had just given him the clarity to see how much work he still had to do to figure out what was the real issue. It wasn’t the drinking. It was whatever had caused the drinking, and he honestly wasn’t exactly sure the reason.

When the waitress brought his ginger ale, he took a sip and decided that no one wanted a creeper in the background watching their celebration unfold. He stood up, deciding to go for it. That was how he’d gotten where he was—he took risks, went after what he wanted. And there was no denying he wanted this woman to whatever extent she was willing to give herself to him. Even just five minutes of conversation, he’d take it. He was curious, and he thought it was for all the right reasons.

He knew the minute she spotted him. Her smile fell off her face. Her eyes raked over him. For a second, there was wild, unadulterated lust and admiration in her eyes before she masked it. Then a chilly demeanor

replaced it, and when he approached the table she put the champagne bottle down on the table with a thunk.

“Oh. Hi.”

Not exactly a warm reception. “I hear you won the lottery. That’s amazing. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” She looked at him expectantly.

Marco found himself at a loss for words. My God, fame had well and truly insulated him from social awkwardness. How many years had it been since someone had made it clear they didn’t want him around? Allison clearly wanted him to go away, and it galled him. The one woman he found himself attracted to in a year and she wanted nothing to do with him?

So he stubbornly stood his ground. “Are you planning trips to Mexico and mentally shopping for Louis Vuitton bags?”

Her expression revealed that was exactly what she’d been doing. That made him grin. So she wasn’t so different from other women he knew. She still had a weak spot for travel and shopping. It made him feel more on even keel.

“Maybe I’m going to save the dolphins,” she said.

“Then the dolphins thank you.” He glanced over to see that her friends were all staring at him with wide eyes. “Hi, I’m Marco. Sorry to interrupt your party. I just wanted to tell Allison congrats.”

“How do you know my name?” she asked, her voice sharp.

“The waitress told me.”

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but do you mind? I just want to have fun tonight and celebrate, and I don’t want this place overrun by women who want selfies with you.”

That pissed him off. “How is that not meaning to be rude? I did buy you a drink for your alleged inconvenience last night and now I’m just saying congrats. I can be in this bar if I want.”

“Allison…” the redhead said in a pained whisper. “Please.”

But Allison wasn’t backing down. It was obvious in the way she narrowed her eyes. “You get to be a star every day. I never get to be the center of attention. Just once, I want tonight to be about me. I don’t want you to steal the spotlight from my win. Call me selfish, call me vain, call me whatever you want, but I can’t help it. It’s the way I feel. I don’t want this to be about you, I want it to be about me. Just tonight. Is that so hard to understand?”

He had to respect her honesty. He wasn’t sure he could stand in front of a bunch of people and admit that he wanted to be the center of attention. He found that totally refreshing and seriously sexy. He did understand, and so he found himself nodding. “I get it. I really do. So I’ll leave you to your celebration as long as you give me your number.”

Her jaw dropped. “What? No. Are you nuts? I’ve been a complete bitch to you.”

Marco put his hands in his pockets, more at ease now, amused. “Maybe I’m tired of the dick-sucking harem. Maybe I’m intrigued by someone who isn’t afraid to say exactly what she’s thinking.”

The man or woman or the man becoming a woman, Marco wasn’t exactly what what pronoun to use to refer to him/her, nodded emphatically.

“Honey, that is most definitely Allison. This girl has no filter. None.”

“Shut up, Beckwith,” she said, though it was without heat or rancor. Her cheeks were pink.

“See?” he added. “Honest to a fault, this one.”

Marco had shifted so that he was closer to Allison. He liked that with the heels, she was his height. She exuded confidence and a strong sense of who she was. Not to mention she had the most lush and full mouth that practically was begging for him to kiss.

“I don’t think I’m your type,” she said.

“How do you know?”

For the first time, she was starting to get flustered. She looked around the table for help but there was none forthcoming. Her friends were just staring, watching, waiting. “I…”

It seemed she was finally at a loss for words.

Her friend she had called Beckwith spoke, rattling off a phone number.

“That’s Allison’s number. Call her, Marco, honey. But I can tell you right now I can lead the horse to water but I can’t make her drink.”

“Could you repeat that number?” Marco asked, pulling out his phone.

“Don’t repeat that!” Allison glared at Beckwith. “You can’t give my number out to strange men.”

“He’s not a strange man, he’s Marco Lucky.” Beckwith smiled at him.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

He gave him the number again.

“Don’t call me,” Allison said. “It’s not a good idea.”

“Why not?” And why was he still standing there when she was making it so clear she wasn’t interested in him? But it was a pattern of his, to bang his head against walls. He knew that. He should let this go. But it was just too intriguing, the concept of rejection. It might be good for his soul. Not that he was prepared to accept rejection. “Do you find me unattractive?”

She snorted. Her eyes looked everywhere but at him.

That was all he needed to know. He saved her number and gave her a smile. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Enjoy your evening, Allison.”

As he left, he heard one of her female friends ask, “Would you rather win the lottery or a night with a rock star?”

Allison laughed. “Please, no contest. The lottery, of course.”

“Well, you’re a dumbass,” Beckwith said, loud and clear. “Because you could have just had both.”

“Anyone can fuck a rock star,” she said. “It’s nothing to my credit. All you have to do is show up and spread your legs. Not much of an accomplishment.”

“Most people will never get the opportunity to leg-spread. You have the most ass-backwards way of thinking of things.”

She did. Marco liked it.

And she was right. Anyone under the right circumstances could have shared his bed not that long ago. He hadn’t exactly been discerning. It was merely whichever woman was close by at the end of the night. It wasn’t something he was proud of. It was one thing to say he wasn’t in the market for a relationship, but still hook up with various women he found interesting and attractive. Funny. Intelligent. But he hadn’t even bothered to investigate any of that. He’d just tumbled blind drunk into bed with whatever warm flesh was nearest.

He’d been working on dealing with the residual disgust with himself for how he had treated those women, and Allison seemed to have a way without intending to, of perfectly reminding him of the man he wanted to be. He wasn’t there yet, but he was getting there, slow and steady. He sat back down and drank his ginger ale and wondered what he should do with the rest of his night. He had told her he would leave, but he didn’t want to.

He wanted to be in the background, the silent observer, the eye to the keyhole of what normal twenty-somethings did in Manhattan.

He texted the number Beckwith had given him, wondering for a brief second if it was a fake. He just wrote, This is Marco.

Feeling like a true stalker, he watched her pull her phone out of her pocket and glance at the screen. She put it away without responding, nor did she look over at him. Her self-control was fucking amazing. He respected that.

But then his phone buzzed, and despite knowing it wasn’t her, because he had been staring at her the whole time, he felt a frisson of hope that somehow she had mystical texting powers and had responded. After finishing his drink, he checked his phone and found he had a text from his manager, who apparently had seen on social media that he’d been spotted in the same bar two nights in a row. Most likely Sandy the waitress had posted something and tagged him. He didn’t mind, except now Harry was going to be on his ass. A text from Allison definitely would have been better.

Dude, a bar? I thought we were over this shit.

Not drinking. Don’t worry about it.

He sent Harry a picture of his ginger ale.

That doesn’t prove dick.

No, it really didn’t, but he didn’t feel the need to apologize when he wasn’t doing anything he shouldn’t be. A mood was creeping up on him again, that dark, crawling anger and resentment. It was like cockroaches—it came out at night and scattered during the day. Right then, in the dim bar, it was encroaching again, like it had the night before, making him unfit for human interaction. It was right about then that the women showed up. The same ones from the night before. They beelined straight toward him, and he immediately regretted that he had hung around. It would do exactly what Allison had complained about—make the night all about him, not her.

It made his mood worse. He just wanted to be left the fuck alone. Was that so greedy or wrong or ungrateful? Maybe it was. All he knew was that he would stick around, be the nice guy, because, despite wanting to do literally anything else, he couldn’t live with himself if he was a prick to the very fans who made his paycheck possible.

“Can we get a picture?” the one woman asked. She was wearing what seemed like very little clothing for October, her cleavage out on full display.

“Sure.” He stood up and got in the middle of the three women, careful to put his hands in his pockets, not around their arms.

“We don’t bite,” the blonde said, snuggling closer. “Much.” She laughed. Her boob pressed against his chest.

Marco gave a small smile at the camera the brunette held out, but without responding. He wasn’t going to be rude, but at the same time, he wasn’t going to send any vibe that he wanted to continue this encounter outside of the bar so that they wouldn’t get the wrong idea. That fine line was harder now that he was sober. Before, he would have just taken one or all three home. Or if he was in a bad mood, he would have been rude without any thought to their feelings.

But after five minutes of pictures and small talk, he was done. He was going to have to make an excuse and bolt.

His phone buzzed. “Excuse me,” he said to the women, and pulled his phone out. He grinned, feeling instantly better. It was from Allison.

You’re violating the terms of our agreement.

I can’t get away from them without being rude. Rescue me.

I think you can handle yourself.

He could practically hear her disbelief and disdain. He glanced over at Allison’s table, but her back was to him.

I have a hard time saying no. It’s how I wound up famous.

She laughed out loud. He heard her even from ten feet away. She glanced over her shoulder at him, rolling her eyes. But her lips were curved in a smile. Then her gaze returned to her phone and she typed.

His phone buzzed.

Do you really want me to come over there and “save” you? Because I can’t guarantee you’ll like the way I’m going to do it. I’m not a people person, if you haven’t noticed.

He was pretty sure her bark was worse than her bite.

Bring it on.

You’ve been warned.

Amused, he shoved his phone back into his pocket. The girls were all looking at him expectantly. “Sorry about that.”

“Want to do a shot?” the blonde asked.

“I’m good, thanks.” He was watching Allison take a sip of her champagne before turning around and moving toward them. Anticipation had his muscles tensing, and he was surprised how much he was looking forward to hearing whatever was about to come out of her mouth.

Her approach was confident, strong, sensual. She walked with a sway to her hips that was natural, like the world was her runway and she was going to own it. She made eye contact with him and amused him by winking. He

liked the feeling that he had a secret with her, a private joke. Like she was willing to play the game with him, when thus far she hadn’t been. Allison came right up to the table and stepped so close to him that the other girls instinctively shifted out of the way.

“Excuse me,” she said to the girls. “But Marco is in time-out. He can’t talk to you.”

Holy shit, really? Marco raised an eyebrow. He had to admit that was not what he was expecting her to say.

“What?” the brunette with the heavy eye makeup asked blankly. The other two were scowling at Allison.

“He was misbehaving earlier, so he was banished to this table to think about what he said to me. But his time-out is up, so he’s coming back to the other table with me.”

Yeah, she was outrageous. Plain and simple. He couldn’t believe she was even saying that with a straight face. Marco put his hand over his mouth and coughed, fighting the urge to laugh. “Thank you, I appreciate being let out of emotional jail.”

“What does that mean?” the blonde asked. “I’m confused.”

“I’m his girlfriend and he pissed me off, that’s what it means,” Allison said. She reached through all the cleavage surrounding the table and picked up his ginger ale. “Come on, let’s go.”

Was it funny? Hell yeah. But she had put him in the most awkward position possible, and, given the unholy grin on her face, she knew it. If he followed her, he’d look like a total pussy. If he stayed, he was stuck talking to the women. Either way, rumors were going to fly that he suddenly had a girlfriend, unless he acted like she was insane and he didn’t know her, and there was no way he could do that to her. He was the one who had texted her, so being a dick was out.

But he could also turn it around on her. Standing up, he grabbed her arm and stopped her from walking away again. Allison turned and gave him a curious look. “Yes?”

“Let me apologize for my despicable behavior,” he said, his tone low, rough. God, she was hot. The cool disapproval on her face shouldn’t be that much of a turn-on, but it was. She wasn’t impressed with him, and that felt so real, so honest, that he was completely determined to prove to her that he was worthy of her time and attention.

He took a step forward, and her eyes widened. She took a step back.

“That’s not necessary. I forgive you.” Her words rose in pitch.

He made her nervous. That was intensely satisfying. “Oh, but it is.”

And he hauled her in closer to him with an iron grip on her arm, his other hand sliding along her satin hair, and kissed her.

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