Chapter 1

Melany

GOD, TALK ABOUT being out of my comfort zone.

I knew half the damn people here and still felt so out of place that an uncomfortable sweat was starting to build in places where no woman ever wanted to sweat—at least while in public.

Why had I even come?

Oh, that’s right. Because my boss’s fiancée, Devon McMillon, could be sweet as pie, but when she wanted something, she turned into a rabid pit bull at the drop of a hat. And for some weird reason, one I couldn’t wrap my head around, she wanted us to be friends.

And because of that, I was currently standing at the back of the room, tucked into a poorly lit corner near the bar, at my boss’s engagement party, surrounded by their friends, co-workers, and loved ones, celebrating the momentous occasion.

I was miserable.

The only dress I’d had that was even slightly appropriate for an event such as this didn’t fit right, my shoes—borrowed from my mother since I didn’t own a single pair of heels—were pinching my toes, and my Spanks were starting to creep into places that made walking feel rather awkward.

I lifted the glass in my hand and downed another gulp of the fizzy, golden-hued liquid, letting the bubbles tickle my nose. At least I could count on Collin Locklaine to host a party with top-shelf booze. It was only the best for my boss and Devon.

As my eyes scanned the room for the millionth time, I finally caught sight of him. If I were being honest, Devon’s strong-handed demands weren’t the only reason I’d come tonight. The main reason was because of him…

Logan Andrew Cartwright.

Sigh.

The man I’d secretly been in love with for five years.

I remembered it like it was yesterday. Our very first meeting was like something out of a fairy tale…

I was running late for my first day of work, so not the first impression I wanted to make on the higher-ups at Archer & Weatherly Architecture and Design.

My anxiety at the thought of starting a new job had kept me up most of the night, tossing and turning as I played out all the worst-case scenarios in my head. It wasn’t until close to four in the morning that I’d exhausted myself enough to conk out, and since I was running on two hours of sleep by the time my alarm went off, I managed to sleep right through it.

I was a frazzled, restless, massive bundle of unraveling nerves by the time I hopped off the train and ran the rest of the way to the high-rise that housed my new employer’s office.

My sole focus was on the ground beneath my feet as I rushed the few remaining blocks, so I didn’t notice I was about to run straight into traffic until it was too late.

The angry sound of a car horn honking startled a jump from me, and I looked up just in time to see that I’d stepped into the street at the same time a yellow taxi came barreling toward the corner.

My mind blanked. All I could do was squeeze my eyes closed and brace for impact. But it never came. Before the cab had a chance to squash me like a bug, a strong arm wrapped around my waist and yanked me out of the path of collision at the very last second.

“Jesus. You okay?” a deep, melodic voice full of concern asked.

My heart pounded against my ribs painfully. My chest was rising and falling at a frantic pace thanks to the near-death experience. Life had flashed before my eyes. And I gotta tell you, what I saw was frighteningly underwhelming.

But being so scared I almost peed myself was totally worth it when I finally looked up into those breathtaking hazel eyes. The man currently holding me in a death grip was the most beautiful specimen of the male species I’d ever seen.

And he’d just saved my life.

It was as though I’d just experienced the most perfect meet-cute ever! I was the damsel in distress, and he was my handsome knight in shining armor.

“I-I… Y-yes. I’m a-all right,” I stuttered. The combination of almost being road kill and the magnetic pull from this amazing man caused an adrenaline rush so heady I had trouble forming a complete sentence.

He smiled down at me and said, “You really should pay more attention to where you’re going.”

My cheeks tingled as heat spread up from my chest. “Uh—o-okay. Th-thank y-y-you.”

Then, despite my body’s protests, the man released his hold on me and took a step back. “I’m glad I was able to spare you a trip to the emergency room.” A laugh worked its way up from my chest, only to get lodged in my dry throat and come out like a loud, strangled bark. The man’s features twisted at the embarrassing sound, and he took another step back. “Well, have a good day. And be sure to watch where you’re walking.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving me drowning in a wave of disappointment.

That was the day I met the man who’d quickly become the love of my life.

It was later that morning that I discovered that, for the first time ever, fate was smiling down upon me. I was in the middle of new hire orientation when a recognizable figure walked past the glass wall of the conference room, drawing all my attention. I nearly choked on my tongue at the sight of him.

I couldn’t even begin to tell you what all they covered that first day in orientation, because after just that brief glimpse, I’d spent the rest of the day fantasizing. My hero was absolutely gorgeous. Tall, leanly muscled with a masculine square jaw and perfect lips. He had dark hair and beautiful hazel eyes that were framed by long lashes that would make any woman envious.

When I got home later that evening, I immediately called up Constance and told her all about my brush with death and the magnificent stranger who’d saved my life. She was my best friend in the entire world—my only friend, really. I’d known her practically my entire life, and to this day, she was the only one who knew about my undying love for Logan Cartwright.

Now, before you consider me some vapid, image-obsessed woman, let me explain. It wasn’t just his looks that made me fall for him.

Oh no. Not even close.

He was kind… so kind—or at least that’s what I gathered from hearing people around the office talk, seeing as, after that one and only interaction on the sidewalk, we’d barely spoken more than a handful of words to each other.

From what I could gather from my coworkers, he donated to every single charity our firm sponsored. He ran the marathons for Multiple Sclerosis and the American Heart Association every year. And when word spread that a relative of his was diagnosed with breast cancer, he joined the Race for the Cure.

He was a good guy. The best. And I’d been loving him painfully from afar for the past five years, going to sleep each night praying that he’d somehow notice me.

“Careful. You stare any harder and you might pull a muscle,” a deep voice spoke up, startling me from my daydreams.

My head jerked to the side to find a man standing there, watching me with a look of amusement on his face. If Logan was the definition of Prince Charming, this guy was a Ken Doll… only more wicked, judging by the glint in his greenish eyes. My belly twisted apprehensively at his attention. Being someone who was painfully awkward under the best of circumstances, my social anxiety only grew worse when another person tried engaging me in conversation—especially if that person looked like he belonged on the cover of GQ.

“Uh… s-sorry?”

The man tipped his chin in the direction I’d been staring. “Who’s the guy?”

My gaze bounced from the stranger to Logan, and back again. “Um… he’s… uh… h-he…”

“An ex you’re still hung up on?” he guessed incorrectly. His question was so ridiculously off the mark that I found myself choking and sputtering like a moron.

An extremely attractive chuckle rumbled up from the stranger’s chest at the same time my face grew red with embarrassment. “Relax, sweetheart. I was just messing with you.”

Mr. Ken Doll turned his attention from me to the bartender and spoke with confidence. “Blanton’s on the rocks.”

The bartender did a little chin lift and went about pouring the drink, and I used that time to try and compose myself. By the time Mr. Ken Doll’s eyes came back to me, I’d managed to stop choking on air and had gotten my breathing back under control… somewhat.

“So…,” he started again, once he had his bourbon in hand. “Not an ex.” He regarded me in an almost speculative manner. “I’m guessing…” He paused and studied me even closer, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. God, I really hated being the center of attention. “A crush who doesn’t even realize you like him.”

My jaw nearly hit the floor. Who the hell was this guy? “H-how did you… what… I… do I know you?”

Mr. Ken Doll’s smile was devastating as he extended his hand for me to shake. His palm was slightly rough, warm, strong, as his fingers wrapped around mine, and I felt a small hitch in my chest at the contact.

He gave our wrists a quick pump before releasing my hand. “Chance Hoffman. Nice to meet you…”

“Melany,” I supplied. “Melany Fitzgerald.”

Bringing his drink to his plump lips, he took a sip then asked, “So, you going to tell me about the guy, or keep me in suspense?”

“How do you know the couple?” I blurted, changing the subject instead of answering his intrusive question.

He shrugged and rested one elbow on the bar top, turning his body toward mine, and I noticed for the first time, that what the man was packing beneath his well-pressed, expertly tailored suit was a body to be marveled at. While Logan had the lean, trim frame of a runner, this guy was bigger, bulkier, and the fine material of his jacket did nothing to hide the bulge of his round bicep.

I swallowed audibly and downed another sip of my drink to try and quench the sudden Sahara-like condition of my throat.

“Friends, I guess you could say.”

I felt one of my eyebrows quirk up at the unusualness of his statement. “Well, that’s rather reticent.”

Chance grinned again. “I dated Devon. She dumped me for Collin.”

I’d unwisely decided to take a drink from my glass just before he spoke, and his words caused the bubbly liquid to slide down the wrong pipe. And for the second time in as many minutes, I found myself choking again.

“Wha-what?” I croaked, banging my chest in an effort to get airflow back into my lungs. Chance’s chuckle became a full-blown laugh as he patted my back.

“You—you came to your ex’s engagement party?” I finally managed to ask once I could breathe again.

There was a playfulness behind his dark eyes and tiny wrinkles in the skin that led me to believe this was a man who spent his days finding the humor in life. I kind of envied him that. “When you put it like that, it sounds kind of pathetic.”

Oh hell. Three minutes with this guy and I’d already managed to offend him. That had to be some kind of record. “No… I didn’t… th-that’s not what I—”

His lips quirked up at one side, a smirk tugged at his lips. “I’m kidding,” he said softly. Yeah, this guy definitely found humor in life. “It wasn’t what you’re thinking, really. Just a few dates. I didn’t even get to second base, so no harm, no foul.”

“Well, that’s a… positive way of looking at it, I guess.” I found this guy kind of fascinating. It was almost as if he wore a protective Teflon coating that made all the negative things in life slide right off him. His devil-may-care attitude was definitely intriguing.

“What can I say?” he shrugged. “I’m a positive kind of guy.”

I had a feeling that was an understatement. Normally, by this time in a conversation, my nerves would have gone into full effect and I would have turned into a bumbling mess, but something about Chance Hoffman captivated me, and I found myself staring. No less awkward, mind you, but I wasn’t nervous around him. He was too easygoing. The complete antithesis of everything I was.

My mouth opened, to say what, I had no idea, but before I could get a word out, we were interrupted by a woman’s sultry, purring voice.

“There you are.” Blood-red nails scored the material of Chance’s suit jacket, coming to rest on his stomach. I looked up and over his shoulder at the blonde who was currently wrapping herself around him like an anaconda.

Chance turned sideways, giving me a better look at the woman. Long, tanned legs in sky-high heels led to a clingy sapphire-colored dress that barely hit the middle of her thighs. The woman looked like she’d just stepped off a catwalk, and seeing her sent a wave of intimidation crashing over me.

“Kat, this is Melany,” Chance spoke up, introducing me to his model-esque date. “Melany, Kat.”

“Pleasure,” Kat muttered. The way her upper lip curved in a sneer as she said it told me the greeting was totally, 100 percent insincere. And if that hadn’t been enough, the way her eyes scanned me up and down, clearly finding me lacking, said she couldn’t understand why Chance would think she even cared who I was.

Turning back to her date, disregarding me all together, she lifted her champagne flute to her lips and drank, then hummed. Her voice went husky as she leaned in closer, pressing herself against Chance like a second skin and said, “Mmm, I just love champagne, don’t you? It goes straight to my head.”

My social anxiety had kicked in at her arrival, and, being me, words just started falling from my lips without permission from my brain first.

“Sparkling wine,” I spat out, drawing their attention back to me.

Chance looked at me curiously. “Excuse me?”

“It’s actually sparkling wine. Not champagne.”

Model Chick’s lip curled again. “There’s a difference?”

“Oh yes! See, in order to be called champagne, it actually has to come from that specific region of Champagne, France. That’s right outside Paris. If it’s not from there, it’s simply sparkling wine. It’s really quite fascinating if you think about it. I mean, all champagnes can be called sparkling wine, but not all sparkling wine can be called champagne.”

They both just stared at me like I’d grown a second head—well, in Chance’s defense, he looked more amused than anything else, but still. Their stares did nothing to combat the riot of butterflies inside me, so the word-vomit commenced.

“Also, in order to be considered champagne, it has to be made with particular kinds of grapes. Now, I’m not saying this”—I lifted my own flute—“isn’t made with a chardonnay, or maybe even a pinot noir, which is what actual champagne is made with, but I did see the label on one of the bottles, and it’s from Italy, not France. So… sparkling wine!”

Shut up, Melany! the tiny voice in my head screamed. Shut up, shut up, shut up! But it was too late. “It’s kind of like Kleenex and Q-Tips, right? I mean, not all tissues are Kleenex brand. Just like not all cotton swabs are Q-Tip. But you don’t find yourself saying, “pass me that box of tissues” do you? No, you ask for a Kleenex. It’s the same with champagne.”

I let out a peel of slightly hysterical laughter, and continued. “Man, I’d love to be behind the branding on those products. Talk about cornering the market. Am I right?” I wanted the ground to open up beneath my feet and swallow me, ending this torture, but I wasn’t so lucky. Instead, all I could do was stand there and fidget as an uncomfortable silence blanketed the three of us.

“Well,” Model Chick finally spoke up, “as riveting as this conversation’s been, I’m in the mood to dance.” The way she said it clued me in that she didn’t find it riveting at all. Not many people would, but my penchant for spewing useless facts was as uncontrollable as my stutter when my anxiety kicked in. Setting her glass on the bar, she slid her hand down Chance’s arm until her fingers laced with his. “Chance, baby?”

I watched as his head turned toward her. He smiled briefly before leaning in and nipping at her bottom lip with his teeth. It was so quick and easy, but for some reason, that image burned itself on my brain.

I wanted something like that. I wanted a man who wasn’t worried about public displays of affection, who didn’t care who was around when the mood to touch or taste me came over him. But mostly, I just wanted his easy nature.

“It was nice meeting you, Melany,” he spoke suddenly, pulling my head from the clouds and back to reality.

“Oh… yeah. Sure. Nice meeting you, too. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

After one last charming smile, Chance and Kat were swallowed up by the crowd and I was, once again, all alone in a dark corner, sipping sparkling wine—not champagne—by myself. I spent another half hour tracing Logan’s movements around the party with my eyes, fantasizing that he’d suddenly spot me in the crowd, smile at me like he’d missed me fiercely, and come ask me to dance.

None of that happened, of course, but a woman could dream, right?

Oh well, I thought as I glanced at my watch and decided it had been long enough for me to make a graceful exit. At least I remembered to set my DVR to record the marathon of Criminal Minds before I left.

Besides, who needed real-life interaction when I could be spending my time with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit?