Keir

This was too fucking easy.

Effortless, really.

I imagine tugging the zipper of her dress, the fog of breath on the glass before us, her body melting against mine as she readies for my touch. In my mind, she presses a hand against the cool glass, steadying herself, and my hand slinks up her taut belly and between her round breasts before stopping above her collarbone.

But that’s not happening tonight, much as it pains me.

Over the past hour, Rowan has informed me that her parents have no idea she’s here in the city, and they have no idea she’s ever tasted liquor. Or a stranger. The restrictions placed upon her are suffocating. She’s bored with convention and conservatism.

She’s a rebel in disguise.

A girl after my own heart.

And she hasn’t said it, but she’s a girl with a broken heart. I see it in her eyes. Those round-as-saucers baby blues that look clear through me every time she finds herself lost in thought. I don’t even think she knows she’s doing it half the time, but she is. There are moments when she stares at me, and she’s here, but she isn’t.

Maybe if I had half a heart, I might actually feel sorry for her.

She tosses back the remainder of her second drink, placing the empty crystal martini glass on the edge of the bar cart. “So …?”

Rowan spins on her heel before sauntering in my direction.

“I want to make something very clear, Rowan,” my voice is low, unwavering. “I’m not going to fuck you tonight.”

She stops, eyes lifted onto mine, her expression falling.

“Why did you bring me here?” she asks.

“Because I wanted to,” I say, giving her a taste of her own medicine. “That’s why.”

Judging by the twist of her full lips, she’s not amused. “No, really. Why?”

“Because it was loud at the bar,” I say. “And I wanted to talk, get to know each other.”

Those kinds of words make me want to vomit on the ten-thousand dollar Balfour rug beneath our feet. I don’t “just talk” with women. I loathe getting to know them. Quite frankly, I don’t find them worth my trouble.

But this is all part of the plan. I’m an actor with a part.

Aren’t we all?

“Great.” Rowan’s hands clap against her sides as she walks away.

“You’re … upset?” I scratch my left temple, keeping my fingers around my whiskey tumbler.

“I just want to have fun. I don’t want to walk out of here wondering when you’re going to call me or if you like me. I only want tonight. Nothing more.”

I don’t tell her how many times women have said those exact words to me.

“I mean it.” Her palms flatten against my chest, her eyes are stormy, and her brows furrow. She’s trying to convince me, but she’s wasting her time. “I don’t want anything from you after this. In fact, we could pass each other on the street tomorrow and I’ll pretend like I’ve never seen you in my life.”

My curiosity is piqued, but I can’t let up on this act. I have a mission to accomplish, and I can’t jeopardize it.

Smirking, I say, “Well that’s cute and all, but I’m not looking for casual.”

“Bullshit.”

A swear word coming out of those pretty little lips nearly makes my cock strain against my suit pants.

I love a good walking, talking contradiction.

I myself am, after all, the biggest contradiction in this entire city.

“Don’t get me wrong,” I say. “The old me? He would’ve fucked you in a heartbeat. But I’ve grown bored of these little … games. I want to settle down. I want to fall in love. I want the real thing, Rowan.”

My stomach sours, and I try not to gag on my own words.

Her brows meet, as if my words don’t compute, and that’s fair. I know I have a reputation. I’ve fucked a lot of women, and I’ve fucked a lot of women over. I won’t try to pretend like it never happened.

But now I’m a “changed man.”

At least until this upcoming election campaign is over and my Maryland constituents vote me into an open senate seat.

My strategist says I need to repair my reputation, and the quickest way to do that is to find a nice girl, organize some photo opportunities, and publicize the hell out of a good, old-fashioned whirlwind romance. Anything that puts me in the spotlight in a positive way.

Rowan Aldridge was hand selected for me by a group of political strategy consultants. Hell, I didn’t know her family worked on my father’s last campaign. I’d never seen her picture until it was presented to me the other week; a photo of Rowan wearing a skirt and glasses and studying in some college library. My strategist described her as having the grace and style of Jackie O with the charm and relatability of Reese Witherspoon.

So not my fucking type.

Until I saw her in person tonight. That little black dress. The push-up bra. The red lips. Clearly Rowan Aldridge has some sort of alter ego, and I’m extremely pleased to make her acquaintance.

One of my guys had been following her for weeks, trying to arrange an opportunity for us to “bump into each other.”

Two hours ago, he called and told me she was sitting at the Goldsmith.

And now here we are.

“So tell me why you brought me here, again?” she asks. “Why you really brought me here …”

I can’t even begin to quantify how much I love that she’s disappointed we won’t be fucking.

Striding toward her, my hand lifts to her jaw, and I’m seconds from answering when her clutch begins to vibrate.

She pushes away from me, gazing across the room at her pulsating purse on my counter.

“Take it,” I say.

“It can wait.” She moves close to me again, but her eyes are over there. “I want to know why you took me home.”

“I told you in the bar. I wanted to talk to you, and it was too loud.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. Sometimes I wonder if there’s something wrong with me because I can look into her glossy baby blues and not feel an ounce of guilt.

I literally feel nothing.

The phone stops vibrating for a few seconds before it starts all over again.

“Just ... give me one second.” Rowan exhales, striding across the room to answer.

I take a seat in an overstuffed Chesterfield, studying the way her hips sway when she moves and wondering how they’d feel beneath my palms. If I’d have brought her here for sex, I’d have made her turn the damn thing off.

I’ve never been good playing second fiddle. Or sharing.

Just ask my older brother, Ronan.

“Hannah, speak up.” Rowan paces my kitchen, circling my island as she cups a palm over her left ear. “I can barely hear you. Where are you?”

She ends the call a minute later and exhales.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “My sister ... she goes to Georgetown and she’s at a party, and she’s drunk, and I think she’s on something or maybe someone slipped her something. I don’t know. I could hardly understand her. I need to go find her and get her home.”

Rising, I lift my phone to my ear and call the car downstairs.

“What are you doing?” she asks, frowning.

“Helping you find your sister.”

Rowan almost laughs, cocking one hand on her hip. “No … that would be … you can’t … it would cause a … no.”

Hooking my hand around her bent elbow, I escort her to the door. My Secret Service agents are perched on the other side, glancing up when they see us.

“We need to locate someone at Georgetown,” I say.

The guys clear the hall before motioning for us to follow, and we ride the elevator to the lobby.

“Why are you doing this? You don’t even know me,” Rowan asks, her heels clicking across the marble tile as we make our way toward my waiting Escalade.

“I’m allowed to do nice things,” I say, though the idea of being selfless and generous has never come naturally to me. I’ve always been more of an “every man for himself” kind of person, but I need Rowan to like me. I need her to want to date me. I need her to trust me. And then I need her to believe I’m falling in love with her.

“You really don’t have to do this.”

One of the men opens the door, and I help her into the car

“I know,” I say. “You can thank me another time.”

Tilting her head, she lifts a brow. “And what did you have in mind?”

“Go on a date with me. Tomorrow night.”

Her jaw hangs for a second before she clears her throat. “Can I think about it?”

It takes everything I have to hide my displeasure with her answer, but I offer a gracious smile and nod. “Of course.”