Whoever this Mr. BadBoy character is, he couldn’t have agreed to a better spot to meet. Tonight, I’m feeling lucky, and not just because I know that Chloe is going to come back from her spa mission horny as all fuck and desperate to jump on this dick.

Although, to be fair, that’s a pretty tasty cherry to place on top of this piece of cake.

I can see and survey the entire bar from where I’m sitting. It’s almost like this table was put here so whoever is sitting in the seat I am right now can keep an eye on things.

There’s a couple in the corner kissing and giggling to each other, and I can practically guarantee that she’s giving him a hand job beneath the table while he tries to look blasé about it. Across the room, there are two busty blonde women on what looks like a blind date, both awkwardly trying to pass the other one the bill.

I should take Chloe down here after this Mr. BadBoy business is wrapped up, honestly. Not only could we people watch all night, but we could also have a hell of a time beneath the table ourselves. Because even though I can see practically everyone from here, the table is positioned perfectly so not a single goddamn soul can see me.

Which is just how I like it.

Obviously, I would take care of the bill.

I couldn’t be more thrilled that I’m finally going to get my thumb on this Mr. BadBoy character. Supposedly a completely spotless billionaire.

I haven’t even seen this guy make a typo. Not even an awkward autocorrect.

Nonetheless, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s not who he says he is. If I’m being completely real with myself, it’s practically turned me into one of those tinfoil-hat wearing conspiracy theorists over the last few weeks, trying to guess at who he might really be.

A politician hiding behind top-of-the-line security technology so his uptight wife and raging constituents don’t find out about what he’s really doing during those long nights at the office. Or should I say, who he’s really doing?

A media mogul. Old money. Someone with a big name in business with a board of directors breathing down his neck, sneaking around to get his kicks after hours under a pseudonym so his sex addiction doesn’t come out and leave his shareholders bailing faster than lifeboats from the Titanic.

Maybe it’s the fucking Wikileaks guy. He seems like the type to hide behind some bad code name and conceal his identity, anyway. That’s his whole deal, right?

I could do this all night. No, really. It’s fascinating to think about, but it’s also the fact that any one of those sounds just as true as the last.

I’m ready to find out who this guy is once and for all, if not for the company then for my own peace of mind. I’m ready to take off the tin foil hat, put these theories to rest, and take my girl to bed to bang one out in a victory fuck.

My phone lights up suddenly, and when I dare to glance down, there’s a Mr. BadBoy message glowing on the screen.

He’s here.

I look around, searching. I can usually pick the billionaire out of the room in an instant, but this is a pretty high-class hotel. Usually, it’s like shooting fish in a barrel, but right now, it’s like I’m trying to catch one particular mackerel in a barrel of, well, other mackerel.

He’s probably not the lesbians, I decide. Or, on second thought, maybe they’re bi. Considering that a sleazy guy has just arrived at their table and whipped out his credit card.

Hey, maybe it’s his lucky night.

Probably not the guy getting a hand beneath the table either. Especially since that couple is blowing this popsicle stand.

They’re probably getting a room. Good for them.

Ultimately, until Cassie rolls in, there’s no way of telling for sure which of these men in suits our mysterious target is. I ring her up on my cell and give her the go-ahead.

“Ask for the table reserved under Mr. BadBoy,” I instruct her.

“Ugh,” Cassie sighs. “The maître d’ is gonna think I’m a jackass, Aaron.”

“I’m not paying you for backtalk. Come on, Cassie. We’ve got this.”

I watch Cassie do her best sexy bitch walk into the bar. She chats with the woman at the front for a few seconds, smiling and laughing. I see her mouth the words Mr. BadBoy, at which point they both fucking lose it.

Then, just like that, she gets led off to a table in the middle of the room.

His back is turned to me. Son of a bitch. When I played this moment in my head, I could at least watch him in profile during this moment.

I was looking forward to seeing the expression on this guy’s face when he thinks he sees Ms. Winters for the first time, after all. Now I’ll never know how stunned he is.

It’s not that I’m sweet on him or anything. This isn’t that kind of story, sorry to crush your dreams. But I’ve been doing a damn fine job posing as Ms. Winters, as far as I’m concerned.

My dirty talk has improved massively, and it’s obviously been working for me. Especially when I think about the dirty things I’m going to whisper into Chloe’s pretty little ear when I get her back up to our room.

Chloe, naked in our bed, fresh from the spa and lying uncovered atop champagne-colored silk sheets, the northern lights overhead, and my mouth between her thighs.

Perfect end to a perfect evening.

Here’s the thing about Chloe: this girl fucking gets me. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a woman, plus a bunch of shit I didn’t even realize a man like me was allowed to ask for.

Here’s the other thing about Chloe: she’s so damned addictive that I start fantasizing about her at the drop of a fucking hat. And when I do, it spirals into this shit.

Mushy stuff. So fucking distracting.

It’s so distracting, in fact, that I nearly miss the look on Cassie’s face when she sits down and turns her face to meet Mr. BadBoy for the very first time.

What I expect to see is a coy little smile, maybe a giggle or a wink. If she was being really bad, I can imagine that she might lick her lips—whatever salacious thing Cassie thinks works best to play the role of a notorious seductress.

She’s seen the James Bond movies. And failing that, she’s seen enough of Kim Kardashian’s Instagram account to fill in the gaps.

What I actually see is the last thing I expected.

Not sexy. Not sultry. The furthest thing from it, in fact.

It’s a look of pure fucking horror. Her eyes are wide, her mouth is gaped open, and she looks like she’s about to murder this guy right fucking there.

“What the fuck, Cassie?” I mumble to myself, furrowing my brow.

Worst spent hundred bucks of my life.

It’s like she heard me say it, because next thing I know, she’s somehow managed to spot me.

Our eyes meet from across the room, and suddenly she’s shaking her head like any second now she’s going to need someone to hold her earrings while she throws down.

What the hell just happened?