Connall Beaumont tipped the top-shelf whisky past his lips, staring at his reflection in the wall-to-wall mirror behind the bar. Every time he came here, he watched his gloomy reflection in the mirror, wondering why do they do that? Was it a narcissistic thing, a way for top executives to ogle themselves as they came for self-congratulatory drinks? This drink wasn’t congratulatory. This drink was advance mourning. This whisky tasted like defeat. And he’d been drinking here every Friday for the past few weeks.

He didn’t want to call it a habit as much as a reaction. His company, B3 Engines, was on the brink of dissolving. Less than two months remained before his dead grandfather’s will was executed, which would sell off the majority shares to outside investors. The entire fate of the company hung in the balance. Nobody could say who would buy them out, what they might want with B3. How many workers they might let go.

Connall and his brother Gregor would lose the business they’d started with Alistair, the business born of blood and sweat and tears. What could Connall say to the workers, who worried over their futures, their stability, their families? That hurt more than anything. That a stupid legal clause, mere words on a paper, could strip him and his business of confidence. Of surety. Of forward-thinking stability. Of his own ability to reassure his employees, on whom the entire success of the business depended, that they could count on him.

Connall tipped more whisky into his mouth, pleased by the sting. His own mussy dark blond hair and loosened tie stared back at him, looking every inch the CEO on his off hours. Two more months. That was it. It might as well have been now. How could Connall ever meet the conditions at this point?

His grandfather’s last wish for his three grandsons was that they would find a love as true and enduring as the love he shared with his wife. Connall wanted that love, and deeply. But what the elderly man didn’t seem to realize when he imposed the eighteen-month timeframe for finding true love was that they were in the twenty-first century now. True love barely happened before thirty, at least in Connall’s world. As the CEO of a tech engineering company, how could it?

His twenties had been dedicated to hustling. And now, barely into his thirties, he’d only recently entertained the notion of dating after his last relationship had ended with something cursed as much as it was lucky: friendship. Hell, swiping right was still a foreign concept to him.

Maybe if his grandfather had given him another five years, he could have saved the company. Then he wouldn’t carry this weight on his shoulders. He might be able to sleep again at night.

“Can I get you another?” The black-vested bartender raised a brow. They knew each other by now. Okay, so maybe his Friday evening visits were a habit.

“Please.” Connall pushed the tumbler his way, staring at the rest of the executive bar/restaurant through the wall mirror. The tables were about half full; plenty of business meetings going on, ruddy faced company heads entertaining clients or maybe even meeting up with mistresses. Connall came here because it was easy, halfway between B3 headquarters and his penthouse apartment. He didn’t usually bring clients here and was even less inclined to network while he was here.

The clinking of silverware and the dull roar of conversation were a pleasant soundtrack as he waited for the next drink. Two and done, that was his usual routine. Always hoping for inspiration—or an angel to fall into his lap, ready to wed. His adventures in online dating were a dismal failure. He’d mapped out all the desirable traits he could conceive of for a partner, even went as far as dropping the I’m a CEO line in his profile. But all the matches were duds. One date he even left midway through because the thought of listening to that woman’s laugh for the rest of his life had made him break out into a cold sweat.

So, fine. He wouldn’t find true love by the deadline. But now he had to find something.

A woman entered the bar, conferring with the hostess. Connall watched through the mirror, his curiosity piqued. Women at the bar weren’t rare; this woman, though, was rare everywhere. He’d glimpsed her for only seconds and yet could still sense that she carried something with her, mystery embedded in her black dress and dark, sumptuous tresses. Her hair fell in lush waves, and as she walked toward the bar, her heavy-lidded gaze betrayed the indifference of a runway model.

Connall tried not to stare, even counted to five once she sat down before allowing himself to look in her direction. Every cell in his body wanted to absorb this woman and the details of her body. Pale, creamy skin contrasted nicely with her dark eyes, made even more striking by dark makeup. She sat by herself five stools down, rummaging in a handbag. Connall cleared his throat, turning to look her way.

She didn’t notice him; probably had stopped noticing most everyone, if those looks were any indicator. Gravity or something like it pulled him toward her, an external force he was powerless to resist. This was a woman his body begged him to pursue, ticking timeline or not. He flagged down the bartender.

“Add her drinks to my tab,” he said in a hushed voice, jerking his head in her direction. Like there could be any confusion about who “her” was. That pulsing, sultry goddess in this terribly normal place.

“Of course.” The bartender nodded and headed her way. Connall watched out of the corner of his eye as he took her order, their voices masked by the murmur of chatter in the restaurant. The woman’s profile was captivating; she held herself almost meticulously, somewhere between casually posed and stiff, as if she was finally bucking a lifetime of rigid etiquette. If she’d grown up with an overbearingly proper British grandmother like he had, he could sympathize.

Slender, bony wrists, the left one boasting a simple silver bracelet. Curves lurking under the shifty fabric of her loose black dress. A slit up the side allowing a glimpse of defined, ivory thigh. Connall drew a deep breath, his pulse racing. He didn’t normally utilize corporate hangouts as places to find dates—the chance of accidentally courting a professional opponent was too high—but with a woman like this he’d make an exception. This bar seemed too small to contain someone as otherworldly as her. He had to act fast.

The woman received her drink, something amber with a sprig of green on top, and immediately slid out of her seat. And then it occurred to him: what if she’d merely been waiting for someone else? A husband? A date?

Connall froze when he realized she was headed his way. A moment later, a soft, sweet vetiver greeted him. The lady smiled at him, easing onto the adjacent stool.

“You work fast.” Her voice was husky, almost raspy, but markedly feminine. Chills chased up his spine.

“No need to delay generosity,” he said, meeting her umber gaze, which stole his breath for a moment. “We lone bar dwellers must stick together.”

She made a display of looking up and down the bar. “So, you bought his drinks, too?” She nodded toward a lone patron at the end of the line of stools.

“He seemed bothered when I offered him a dry martini, so I didn’t push,” Connall cracked, fiddling with his jacket cuff. This woman was almost too beautiful. Made it hard to keep his cool.

“Well you’ve enticed me to join the pack,” she said, lifting her glass. “Cheers to that.”

He clinked his glass against hers, lost in the chestnut swirls of her eyes. They sipped at their drinks, her gaze mischievous over the top of her glass.

“Now that we’re running together in the same pack,” Connall began, moving his tumbler around in a circle on the bar, “What’s your name?”

“Bernadette,” she said. “And yours? Let me guess. You’re a Joseph. Or a Harold.”

“Harold?” He lifted a brow, unable to fight the grin. A playful energy radiated from her, something intoxicating and sweet. “You couldn’t be more wrong. Do you always guess the names of new people?”

“Only when I feel like it.” She squinted at him. “David.”

“Connall,” he said with a laugh. “You weren’t even close.”

“Connall.” She nodded, like this was somehow impressive. “You’re the first one of those I’ve ever met.”

“You’re the first Bernadette I’ve ever met,” he admitted, raising his glass again. “Shall we toast to that as well?”

They clinked their glasses once more. Connall smiled through the next sip of his whisky. “I’m not holding you up, am I?”

“Oh, no. My dinner date isn’t here yet.”

His stomach squeezed, remembering the possibility that this elegant beauty could be completely off limits. “Am I imposing? I don’t want to cause any troubles for you. You know, like angering your husband, or starting a turf war. Though I did bring my dueling pistols if needed.”

She slapped the bar top and threw her head back to laugh. He couldn’t help but laugh at her outrageous amusement.

“Oh, please.” She sent him a mysterious grin. “I’m just meeting my father. He’ll be here any minute. You can put your dueling pistols away for some other time.”

Connall deflated slightly. He wasn’t keen to relinquish this easygoing banter. Not when the only real activity on his weekend agenda was working from home and priming himself to finally find a wife of convenience.

His palms itched as he considered taking the plunge. Just get her number. It would be stupid of him not to. This angel had fallen into his lap, just as he’d been hoping. There was no way he could let her waft away and become a salacious memory tainted with what if.

“Listen. If your father is about to arrive…” Connall made a display of checking their surroundings, and then leaned in closer. “Then I should proposition you before he overhears and can disapprove.”

Her grin widened, showing off straight, white teeth. “Proposition me, huh?”

“Oh, yes.” He drew an invisible pattern on the bar top, playing it cool. “I’d like to get your number. And then I’d like to take you out. Tomorrow, if you can.”

She pursed her lips into a mysterious smile, arching a brow. “Tomorrow.”

“Indeed.” His heart thumped, awaiting her response. He hadn’t put himself out there like this in a long time. And suddenly he was a young man again, clinging to the decision of a gorgeous woman out of his league.

“Well then, I should probably get you my number so you can start texting me the details,” she said, propping a temple against two fingers. “Before daddy comes.” Her wide smile nearly crippled him. She was too beautiful for words and suddenly, somehow, agreeing to see him the next day. And apparently, she had a naughty streak. Connall, you might be dreaming.

He retrieved his phone from his pocket, unable to look away from her. She relayed her number, and he checked it twice. Then she turned toward the front of the restaurant, her face lighting up.

“There he is.” She waved at someone across the bar, and Connall twisted to look. “There’s my father. I guess I should go now.”

Across the room, a familiar face entered the dim, relaxed atmosphere of the lounge. Primly placed white hair, a pressed navy suit. That can’t be her father. He squinted to make sure. The man followed a hostess to a table set for two nestled in the middle of the restaurant. Connall swallowed hard. He wasn’t imagining it.

That man was his grandfather’s lawyer.

He turned to Bernadette, his voice sticking in his throat as she slid off the stool, grabbing for her purse. “That’s your father?”

“Yes, why?” She cast him an easy smile. “Do you know him?”

He jerked his head into a nod, facing his drink again. “Yes, actually, my family had some business with him. Great man.” He tossed the rest of his drink back, heart hammering between his ears. Her father is the man responsible for executing grandad’s will. What were the odds? Of course this woman was too good to be true. Too perfect to be simply an interested beauty, willing to give him her number.

“My father seems to know everyone in Seattle,” she said with a sigh, grabbing her handbag.

“Enjoy your meal. I’ll be testing your number soon to ensure it’s not a fake.” He winked at her, and her smile returned.

“Good. See you tomorrow.” She strutted off, ass moving with a rhythm he couldn’t look away from.

Grandfather’s lawyer or not…he was taking this woman out tomorrow. But now that he knew exactly who she was, he’d up the stakes. Let that conniving man sweat a little. After refusing to share the particulars of his grandfather’s will for over sixteen months, Connall was more than exasperated with the secrecy. More than that, he was convinced he could find a loophole if only he could see the damn thing.

At this point, putting a stick in the lawyer’s craw was one of the few recourses Connall had. And that started with the world’s most elaborate first date.

He’d give Bernadette a night to write home about.