Weston Grant is hot.

My heart is in my throat from looking at him, and it’s a miracle I can string two words together. If it wasn’t for the fact that I’ve been determined to excel at this job from the first day, I’d probably be a babbling mess right now. As it is, I can feel a giggle bubbling up from my chest. I choke it back down and manage to keep my expression calm and coy.

Of course the sexiest billionaire in New York City would show up tonight at the Rose. Of course the sight of him, live and in living color, would turn my brain into a hot mess of lust and want seven hours before my Torts exam.

There are dark-haired guys, and then there’s Weston Grant. I thought I knew how unbelievably sexy he was from seeing pictures of him in magazines and every newspaper covering New York gossip, but seeing and watching him in person is a different story. 

And he’s looking at me.

The way he’s looking at me—and the heat rocketing through my entire body—pushes away everything else I know about Weston Grant, which is that he’s not only the most sought-after single man in the city.

He’s one of the most ruthless businessmen in the country. His pharmaceutical company gobbles up smaller firms and never, ever turns down an opportunity to make a hefty profit. I don’t know much about the ins and outs of the pharmaceutical industry, but I’ve read enough articles to know that he takes people for all they’re worth.

“You’re not looking for me.” I get the words out in time. “I promise.”

His green eyes glimmer in the low lighting. “I promise you, I am. I’ve been looking for you all night.”

I raise my eyebrows, sure the look on my face clearly expresses my disbelief. I’m extremely doubtful that I’m the one he’s been looking for.

“I’ve been here all night,” I say. Thinking about Garratt v. Dailey and Palsgraf v. Long Island Railroad. For a blinding instant, it all seems so stupid. I could have been thinking about Weston Grant, and the way his body flows in his clothes, custom-tailored to accent the cut and rippling abs I know are hidden underneath. I know because whenever Weston Grant is photographed with a woman, the gossip sites also like to run a picture of him in a swimsuit on some super-yacht in the tropics. Those pictures all feature different women as well, but the focus is all on his body, and especially his perfect abs.

Get a grip, Juliet.

The only way you can become a member of the White Rose is if you’re ultra-wealthy, so there’s no explaining why my heart is racing over Weston Grant when every other table in the establishment is stacked with men who could pay for my entire law school tuition in one swipe of a single credit card. 

It’s probably because they’re not looking at me like Weston Grant is looking at me right now. His green eyes remind me of dazzling emeralds in this light, and they’re burning right into my core.

I swallow hard. I need to end this conversation, because conversations like this are dangerous on every level. If I’m going to pass my exam tomorrow, I absolutely cannot keep talking to Weston Grant…unless he’s seated at one of my tables and wants to order a drink. If I’m going to pass law school, I’ve got to hustle back to the bar and put in another drink order for Tables Five and Seven. And if I’m going to get myself under control, I need to tear myself away from him right now. He is all wrong for me.

There’s a movement near my elbow, and then someone’s lips are at my ear. 

It’s my manager, Greg. “Table Nine wants a tapas tray.”

Weston’s eyes skip from me to my manager, and then his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

A hot flush spreads from the base of my neck all the way to the base of my spine, followed immediately by an icy dash of reality. I lift my chin an inch, affixing my regular White Rose smile on my face, and nod to Greg as if he’s told me a secret. That’s the type of vibe we try to cultivate at the Rose—not some giddy law student getting starstruck by a billionaire, especially when she’s literally surrounded by them. 

I don’t even know who that woman is. Certainly not me. I have goals. I have lives riding on every single hour of my day. One life in particular. 

Greg disappears among the tables again. Weston still hasn’t taken his eyes off me. “You’re a waitress here?”

A twist of disgust lurches in my gut at the tone of his statement. We might have shared a little magic moment, but this isn’t some Cinderella story. I’m not even looking for one. I’m at work, doing my job, and clearly feeling the pressures of tackling the first year of law school on too little sleep. But I’m not embarrassed to be working here, even if Weston Grant has a problem with it.

I don’t care what Weston Grant thinks.

I grit my teeth and give him my best grin. “You couldn’t tell by the uniform?” His eyes glide down the front of me, and I settle one hand on my hip. “Are you joining a party, or may I help you find your way to your table?”

He nods past me. A glance over my shoulder is enough to know that the rest of Table Five—including the man who’s still practically licking his lips—is staring at us. Another blush runs over me. I hate it.

But Weston Grant doesn’t remove his eyes from mine and step around me like I’m a piece of furniture. 

No.

Weston Grant takes a step closer and stares directly into my eyes again, giving me a half-grin that has me weak in the knees. When he steps forward once more, I can feel the heat of his breath against my ear, though he doesn’t lean quite as close as Greg did. I maintain my professional smile into the space behind him in case anyone is watching. I’d bet all the money in my bank account that everyone is looking.

“I don’t care if you are a waitress. I’m dying to know your name.”

I suck in a breath. Weston Grant doesn’t only look good. He smells good. His scent is smooth and rich and spicy, more opulent than anything or anyone else in the room with us right now.

“Of course,” I say, pulling back a little. I’m at work. Professionalism is a must. “My name is Juliet.”

His eyes crinkle, and for a moment, I think he’s going to make the same tired Romeo joke that every man in Manhattan has already made at least once. “Juliet, I have a better offer.”

“A better offer for what?”

“A better offer for you.”

I purse my lips into a smile that’s part polite, part warning. “I’m not looking for any offers.”

And I’m not. Now that the spell has been broken, I want to get away from Weston Grant. I don’t need him—or anyone else—assuming that I’m here to fleece people for money. In a way, that’s every waitress’ job, but I don’t need whatever kind of offer he’s got in mind. Especially if it’s going to be paid for off the backs of people who desperately need the drugs he develops and sells to make his billions.

“It would be worth your while.”

What is he saying? A hot spike of anger jolts through my gut.

“I see.” The smile on my face turns sharp and I pull it back into place. “How about this offer, instead, Mr. Grant. You have a seat, and I’ll bring you a drink. What are you having?”