Elizabeth's Aunt Juliette changed the venue for this year's Philadelphia-Montgomery Autism Awareness Gala, and by the looks of this place, it was a smart decision. In years past it's been hosted in the classically designed ballrooms of the some of the best hotels in Philadelphia including The Rittenhouse Hotel and my favorite–The Ritz Carlton, but this year it's being held in The Castle. An event space on the campus of a small, local university that's drop dead gorgeous and dramatically different.

With its expansive entryway, dark mahogany wood floors, oversized staircases, and exquisite crown molding–the space literally looks like an old-world castle inside. I have a thing for interior design, so I really like how Juliette used modern touches to complement the old-world architecture of the room.

I have a long history of coming to fundraising events like these. My parents were invited to a ton of them over the years and always brought me along. I didn't appreciate them much when I was young. I found them boring, pretentious, and I would've much rather spent my evenings drinking behind the bleachers with all the other over-privileged brats at my high school.

As I look around the sea of attending guests tonight, while there are some good looking, single, men here I wouldn't mind meeting, I realize that not much has changed since I was a kid. Same crowd. Same social climbers. Same agenda.

"Here to catch an investment banker tonight, Ms. Pearson?"

Scratch what I just said.

A lot has changed.

Now it seems as if they allow anyone into these events.

"Very witty," I say with a great deal of sarcasm to the dressed-up caveman seated next to me.

He grins like he thinks that I am actually amused by his degrading question, even though it's closer to the truth than I care to admit.

"Me. See. That. You. Found. Suit," I retort in the manner that Jane would speak to Tarzan.

Then he lets out a deep belly laugh that garners us a few glances from the other guests at our table.

"Let's dance, princess."

Ick, I think to myself. I hate that overused, unimaginative term of endearment.

"If you're going to address me, please use my name. It seems like you and your friend Roman have a problem with calling people by their God given names. Is that how they do things in your 'hood. Everyone gets a ridiculous nickname?"

"You were much nicer when we first met. Why can't you be that girl again?"

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response. Now go away before people think we're here together. As if."

I motion for him to shoo with the back of my hand.

"Scoot. Shoo!"

The asshole laughs even harder.

I can't imagine what on earth I'm doing to encourage him. I sat on the edge of his chair for roughly ten seconds when we first met at Lotus. I was doing my flirty thing, not thinking much of it, and he's been giving me googly eyes ever since. Why I'm not inspiring that same type of adoration from the gazillion other men I've met over the last few weeks is anyone's guess.

"Fine," I say in frustration. "I'll move then."

As I motion to stand up, Cutter King grabs me around my waist with clear purpose. His eyes dancing. His grip strong. And he pulls me in toward his very large pecs. Then he stands up slowly. Making sure to slide his chest against my breasts as he rises to his full height.

He's tall. Really tall.

Muscular. Massive.

Brick hard and built like a caveman.

Strong enough to bash the head in of any intruder. Fast enough to catch any prey. And I'm not going to lie, big enough in all the right places to give me the fuck of a lifetime.

"Save that dance for me, princess."

Now I understand. Why Elizabeth always wears panties under her dress, and me going commando was a bad idea. Because what the hell is going to soak up all the wetness that the bass in Cutter's voice just produced between my legs?

"I need to excuse myself please."

And all I hear is Cutter King's arrogant, rumbling laughter echoing behind me, as I hightail it from the table to find the nearest ladies' room.

After cleaning myself in the bathroom stall, I exit to find myself in the company of two other women at the sink area. I politely nod hello and begin washing my hands with several pumps of lime basil hand soap.

"This is quite an eclectic crowd," one woman says to the other.

"Yes, it is. I think I saw an Action News truck outside too. This event is probably going to get some eleven o'clock press coverage."

"That would be nice."

"And did you see that guy with Juliette's stepson?"

"The tall one?"

"They're both tall."

"I know who her stepson is. I'm talking about the one who looks like a Viking."

The first woman looks at me in the mirror and cracks a small smile. At first, I wonder if she knows that I was talking to said Viking just a few moments ago, but that isn't it. She just seems a little embarrassed by the content of their public conversation and is probably wondering if I'm judging them. I cordially return their smile, but continue with my primping process in an effort to act like I don't care ... as well as to eavesdrop.

"Yeah, him. I don't think I've seen him at this event before. I definitely would have remembered."

"Me too. He's gorgeous."

"And young."

"And did you see those tattoos? I think he has more than the stepson."

"I'd climb him like a tree."

They both start giggling like they're sixteen years old again.

Oh good grief.

"He's too young for us though."

"Yeah, he is, but it's all right to look," woman number one says giggling. Looking at me when she says it. "My husband looks at other women all the time."

I bite.

"I think it's totally fine to look," I add. "I'm sure the man you're referring to appreciated it."

"Oh, my goodness, do you think he saw us?"

"Don't worry. I'm sure a guy like the one (asshole) you're describing didn't give it a second thought. He's probably used to it. He may even enjoy it."

Present Day

It doesn't take long for me to spot him. Cutter is always the tallest man in the room. Covered in ink. Dressed much more casually than everyone else in a simple black tee, dark wash jeans, and a clean pair of black work boots. Standing powerfully at the end of the bar like he owns the place—which I guess is only right because he does. Towering over some Kardashian-built brunette who is staring at him like she desperately wants him to sire all of her offspring.

It's like watching a car accident on the freeway. I should really mind my business and keep it moving, but I can't help but stop and stare. That is until he turns his head and cuts his eyes clear across the dark room to meet mine. I immediately dart my eyes away and hold myself stock still. Only remembering a moment later to breathe. Angry with myself that I've been caught rubbernecking.

Remember who he is, Sloan.

A manwhore.

Remember who you are, Sloan.

A woman with a brain.

I raise my eyes back up. Meeting his head on. My plan is to stoically hold his stare until he turns away. My prediction is that it should only take a moment for him to become disinterested and turn back to his very attentive fangirl. Guys like Cutter have the attention span of a squirrel.

Hmm, he's still staring.

When one side of his mouth turns up into an absolutely hot, dirty, pornographic grin, I come to the conclusion almost immediately that my vagina is actually the real problem. The reason why I'll never have a half decent man in my life.

It wants bad things.

Tall, tatted, terrible things.

Things that make it wet.

I'm done with this stinking club. This is the last time I'm going to come here trolling for Mr. Wrong. I've got a weirdo waiting for me on the other side of the room who probably wants to hack me into teeny tiny pieces–and then there's this guy. Even more trouble. Taunting me with those perfect lips, those well-defined pecs, and that perfectly toned ass of his.

Gratefully, I'm distracted by a phone call from my teenaged sister. A call that I can barely hear over the loud music.

"Hey," I say in greeting while holding my opposite ear closed with my fingertip.

"Are you out partying?" she asks in an almost accusatory tone.

"Yes, I'm out, and I can hardly hear you in here. Are you all right?"

"Um, yeah, but I need to talk to you."

"Is it urgent?"

I ask the question, but I can already tell by her tone of voice that she wants to talk to me immediately. Funny how everything with seventeen-year-old girls is a matter of life and death. I suppose I was the same way at her age.

"Just forget it."

"I'm not saying no. I just want to know if we can talk later. I can barely hear you, and I've been drinking a little."

"Later's fine."

"Good. Let's grab lunch. I'll call you with a time tomorrow. Is that cool?"

"Cool."

Before I can say goodbye, my sister already clicks me off the line. She's probably annoyed that I didn't make myself immediately available to her, but she's just going to have to deal with it. I do have a life.

Someone taps me from behind on my shoulder.

"I see you've lost your way."

I turn around and notice that it's the weird guy once again. He's standing behind me at another bar next to some other guy who seems to know him. They're both staring at me with the goofiest grins on their faces. I guess I was so distracted by Cutter, that I didn't realize that Cord had been walking right behind me the entire time.

"I thought you said you were going to wait for me over at the other bar?"

"I didn't want you to have to push your way through this crowd once you finished up in the ladies' room. It's getting packed in here. This way I'd be easy to spot."

He's right. It's definitely getting crowded, but I give him the side-eye anyway. Probably because he's a little too eager, a little too anxious, and mostly because every time I look at him all I see are flaws. His hands are small and soft. He doesn't look like he's worked hard a day in his life. His skin is pristine–no ink. In heels I can look him directly in the eyes, not up into them.

"You didn't have to do that," I say faking a polite smile.

"Sure I did. There's no way I'm going to blow my chance with Dan Pearson's daughter."

And that my friends was the sound of Cord hammering the final nail into his "no way in hell" is he going home with me coffin.

I'm definitely bailing on this loser.

And at this rate–on the entire male species.