The line is moving, and it’s like Main Street in a small town with how many people are approaching others and asking them how they’re doing. I’m so enamored by the friendliness of this group, a group I’d usually have no contact with, that I don’t notice when a guy approaches me.

“Hey, want in?” he asks.

I glance behind me. He’s a smaller guy, with dark slicked-back hair and an unkempt beard.

“I’m sorry, what?” I ask, pushing the strands of my blonde hair behind my ear.

“The fight. The final one starts in about…” He glances at his Rolex watch. The guy must do well unless it’s a fake, but from the quick look I got, it’s not. I should know the difference, Chase owned two. “A half hour.” I notice a wad of cash in his pocket.

“I’m sorry. This is my first time here. I don’t know the fighters.”

His eyes zoom over my right shoulder and then back my way, a smile now teasing at his lips. “Want to meet one?” he asks, and instinctively I look to my right and left, waiting to see some guy with red or blue boxer shorts on, but there’s no one.

“You going to give me a backstage pass or something?” I ask.

He laughs, revealing a mouth full of capped teeth. “No, babe, I’m not. Listen, these are the rules. It’s Brock Hayes and Lucas Cummings tonight. This fight’s been expected for some time, and you have a fifty-fifty shot with either one.”

Is this guy serious? He expects me just to bet on two guys when I have no idea who they are?

The line moves forward, but every step I take, this guy matches.

“What’s your name?” I ask the little gnat who doesn’t seem to want to leave me alone.

“Shawn,” he answers.

“Okay, Shawn. Here’s twenty.” I pull the bill from my wallet, discreetly covering my other cash.

“Who you betting on?” he asks, grabbing a raffle ticket and poising his pen, waiting for my reply.

“Um…” In my head I’m doing eenie, meenie, miney, mo.

“I’d go for Brock,” a guy who’s suddenly appeared next to me chimes in.

He has the most gorgeous green eyes. Seriously, like two emeralds lit up with a spotlight. My gaze moves down to his chiseled, scruffy jaw and pouty lips. My stomach flutters, my heartbeat stammers, and heat builds between my thighs.

Who is this man?

“Why?” I ask, swallowing down the saliva pooling in my mouth.

“Lucas is a newbie, and he’s the underdog.” He widens his stance, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s wearing black track pants and a t-shirt that’s faded as though it’s seen the inside of a washing machine a million times.

“But Shawn says it’s a pretty even fight,” I argue and the guy looks at Shawn and then back to me.

“He’s trying to take your money. Believe me, bet on Brock.” He nods and a girl comes over, handing him a water bottle.

“Thanks.” She tiptoes up and kisses his cheek. “Tonight?” she asks and I understand her presumption.

Excuse me while I swallow back the bile rising up my throat. Of course, the gorgeous guy is a man whore.

“Thanks for the water,” he says and ignores her question. She scurries away and his eyes focus back on me.

Wanting to get these drinks and get back to my table, I dig into my wallet and grab a hundred-dollar bill. “Fine. One hundred on Lucas.” I hand my money to Shawn, and he scribbles something on my ticket, handing it over to me.

“If Lucas should win”—he laughs like it’s impossible—“come see me over there after it’s over for your payout.” He points to a long table just past the makeshift bar we’re standing in front of, and I nod.

“Sure thing.”

The line moves forward, as does Shawn to the people behind me, but the hot guy is still right next to me.

“You like the underdogs?” he asks, taking a sip of his water. I fixate on the way he’s licking his lips. Damn, I bet he’s one of those awesome kissers. Not that I’ve ever had a kiss that made my knees weak, but I bet this guy can do it.

“I do.” The line disperses and I step up to the bar, ordering a pitcher of beer for the table and a glass of Moscato for myself.

“Sorry. Beer, water, and wine coolers only,” the bartender says. I stare blankly at him.

“Vodka?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Did I say vodka?” he snarls.

“Well, no.”

“Come on,” the guy behind me whines, and the hot guy shoots him a look that has him taking a step back.

“Give her my stuff, Ted,” Muscles says.

The bartender nods and moves into a cooler, grabbing a bottle of Grey Goose vodka. He pours it into a Solo cup and slides it my way.

“I don’t suppose you have a lime?” I ask and the gruff silver-haired bartender stares at me with no expression on his face. He screws the top on the vodka and places it back in the cooler.

Hot guy tugs my elbow and we slide to the opposite edge of the bar.

“This isn’t exactly your type of place, huh?” he asks, taking another sip of his water.

“Why do you say that?” I ask, a little offended.

A cocky grin reveals a mouth of perfectly white teeth. “Because you look like you’re about one second from crying your eyes out.”

“No.” I inhale a breath. Who is this guy?

I’m here.

I’m dressed.

I’m drinking.

I just bet on a fight.

I’m enjoying myself just fine.

“Maybe I’ve never been here before, but I’m not upset, nor do I want to cry.” I grab the pitcher of beer and my straight vodka.

He cups my elbow to stop me. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to offend you. I just wondered why you’re here?”

My shoulders fall. “My friends.” I point to the table where Whit’s tongue is halfway down Cole’s throat and two girls are flirting away with the brothers. Lennon is nowhere to be found.

“You’re friends with the Mendles?”

I shrug.

“The Mendle brothers. They’re the ones who own the gym and host the boxing nights.”

“Really?” I ask, looking back over to see their jeans-and-t-shirt-clad bodies. They own a boxing ring? “They’re friends with the guy who’s being resuscitated by my friend’s tongue.”

He laughs, and our eyes lock for a beat longer than they should. “Do you give CPR like your friend over there?” He steps closer, and I don’t draw back. Maybe this guy isn’t as bad as I thought.

“Not on the first meeting, no.”

“First date?” he asks, the mint from his gum igniting my awareness.

“I’m not looking for a date right now,” I say.

“You’re not? How about a new friend?” He picks up my vodka glass and brings it to his lips. He peers at me over the rim of the glass.

“I have a lot of friends.”

“No one can ever have enough friends. Plus, I come with great benefits.” He tips the cup, and I lose sight of his eyes briefly until he swallows and places the cup down on the bar. I glance to the side to see he’s at least left me some of my drink.

“What kind of benefits?” I ask, leaning into him more and wanting him to tell me everything he’d do to me.

“Intrigued?” he asks.

As embarrassed, as I am to admit it, I nod. That arrogant smirk widens. Maybe a rebound screw is what I need, and if I’m going to, I want this guy. This guy can give me what I need—a crazy sex fest where I can’t walk for days.

He glances behind us into the crowd and back my way, grabbing his bottle of water from the edge.

“How about you meet me after the fight, and I’ll show you the benefits I’ll bring to our budding friendship?”

The heat that was building ignites into a wildfire between my legs. I nod, unable to verbally convey my agreement.

“There’s a spot on the north side of the tent. Meet me there about a half hour after.”

I nod, and he leans in close, his breath tickling my skin.

“I’ll need your verbal commitment before I bestow you with my benefits.”

Then he backs away, winks one of his emerald eyes and turns on his heel.

Holy shit, did I just agree to a one-night stand?