January Lyle believed in manners. Impeccable manners. Old-school manners. The type that had been drilled into her early in life by a father who would accept nothing less than a perfectly behaved child to uphold the family name. Ironic, really.

“He still hasn’t called,” January muttered, clutching her cell phone with both hands as Michael, her best friend and roommate, filled a tray with whiskey tumblers and craft beers.

“He’ll call. It’s still early, so I’m sure he just got tied up at the office. What did he send this year?”

She raised her arm, flashing the garnet and diamond bracelet that had come via courier early that morning. “He probably had an assistant pick it out,” she said, turning the gold chain around her wrist. “Are you sure you don’t want me to change clothes and help out? I don’t mind.”

Michael filled glasses quickly and cleanly, only the bead of sweat forming below his hairline gave away the hectic pace he was trying to keep up with tonight. “No, sit,” he insisted as she moved to stand. “It’s your birthday. You aren’t working tonight.”

“Why not? This night is a total bust anyway.”

Michael offered a small smile as he balanced the tray of drinks on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Jan, but you know I can’t afford to turn down a gig like this.” He nodded toward the back room. “Blackstone Software paid for the room and gave me an extra five hundred dollars for the last-minute inconvenience.”

“Stupid rich people throwing their money around,” she huffed and narrowed her eyes as suit after stiff, knock-off suit filed around the room, circling the calamari and shrimp appetizers that had been catered in on fancy, silver platters.

Michael’s Place, a small bar that had become a hot spot for after work happy hours and small events, was overflowing tonight. Besides the party that had reserved the back room, men and women in everything from business casual to jeans and t-shirts sat around the half-circle bar. Tables and booths made up the rest of the space and were filled with groups chatting, drinking, and watching the televisions mounted on every wall.

She’d barely felt Michael’s absence before he was back, exchanging the empty tray for a bottle of wine. “I’m sorry about your birthday celebration. We can go out after I close, or we can have a redo and go out another night. I promise we’ll do it up right.”

“Thanks.” She offered him a half smile as he topped off her glass. “It isn’t your fault the suits decided to throw their party tonight. I think it’s great the bar is doing well. I’m sorry I’m being all dramatic and whiny. Ignore me.”

He playfully snapped a bar towel in her direction. “It’s your birthday; you can cry if you want to,” he sang dramatically and winked.

Puckering her lips, she kissed the air as he turned to tend to the other side of the bar. Her father may have flaked, but she always had Michael, and he was as good as family.

“Is this seat taken?” a gruff voice asked from beside her. The bitter cold from outside clung to him and sent a shiver across her skin.

Turning and tilting her head to see the man attached to the voice, she inhaled sharply.

Armani suit. Nice.

Extremely tall.

Impossibly gorgeous.

She’d nearly done a full assessment as if he were staring back at her from the pages of a magazine, which he could very much have pulled off, before she realized he’d asked a question.

Motioning toward the empty bar chair next to her, she pulled her gaze from him and cleared her throat, hoping her voice would sound calm and collected. “It’s all yours.”

A hint of his cologne invaded her nose as he took a seat next to her, and she shook away the ridiculous urge to grab his perfectly crisp jacket and pull him toward her so she could inhale deeply. Smiling to herself at her over-the-top reaction to a handsome man, she hid the upturn of her lips behind her wine glass.

Michael returned, shooting a questioning glance between her and Mr. Suit. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked the man beside her.

“Yes. Can I get a Coors?”

With her mouth slightly open, she looked at him in surprise, which earned her a cocked brow.

“I had you pegged as a scotch neat kinda guy.”

“Do you often judge strangers by their appearance?” he asked before picking up the bottle by its neck. The movement drew her eyes to his lean, tan fingers. His words made her face warm with embarrassment, still she couldn’t seem to pull her gaze away.

He held it up to his lips as if it were the most natural thing. As if he’d done it a million times. He tipped the bottle back with a flick of his wrist, revealing a very nice and very expensive watch. He turned and stared straight at her with such intensity her body trembled. She’d been wrong. The beer totally suited him.

Forcing herself to look away from his lips, which glistened from the beer, she hoped that he’d have the decency to do the same so she could catch her breath. Something about his bristly self-confidence put her body on high alert. She sat forward in her seat.

“It isn’t completely unprecedented considering the amount of scotch I saw carried off to the back room tonight.” She flicked a casual hand to the back room. “Anyway, not too many men dressed in Armani come in and order a beer.”

One corner of his mouth turned up, and his shoulders shook with a silent laugh before he moved his gaze in the direction she’d pointed. She snuck a closer glimpse while his steeled stare was occupied. He had a hint of a five o’clock shadow along his jaw and cheekbones. His black hair was styled neatly, and the long ends twisted and curled around his ears. Moving her gaze down, she appreciated the way he filled out the suit. His biceps strained against the jacket, and his legs hinted at a pair of muscular thighs, probably the products of a lot of time spent in a gym.

“So, are you waiting for Mrs. Armani, or is it just the two of you tonight—you and your suit?”

He smiled, his whole face lighting up. “Afraid it’s only me and the suit. Interested in joining us back at my place?”

Taking a sip of the cool wine did nothing to extinguish the heat burning her cheeks. “Do you have a lot of success with that line?”

Chuckling softly, he shook his head. “I can promise that’s a line I’ve never used before.” He leaned in closer, the soft fabric of his suit jacket rubbing against her bare shoulder. “How’s it working?”

Michael appeared in front of them before she could respond and rapped his knuckle absentmindedly on the bar.

“So, what do you say, wanna try to go out to celebrate after I close the bar tonight?”

If only for a few moments, she’d completely forgotten about the disaster of a night she’d been having.

“I don’t think I’m up for it. In fact, I think this whole thing is a sign that I’m getting too old to make a big deal about celebrating my birthday.”

“If you think I’m letting you get away without celebrating, you’re crazy. You only turn twenty-nine once.” Michael smiled and rushed off again to the other side of the bar.

“It’s your birthday?”

Meeting his dark eyes, she was surprised to find them swirling with a friendly warmth.

“Yes,” she said, her tone more dramatic than she’d intended.

“Not big on birthdays?” he asked, angling his body toward her and leaning an elbow on the bar.

“It isn’t that.” She shook her head.

“Afraid you’re getting old?” he asked in a humored voice.

She leveled him with an annoyed glare. “Michael,” she said and tilted her glass in the direction her friend had gone, “was going to take the night off so we could go out, but some software company rented the back room for a party and ruined our plans.”

He paused, bottle perched below his lips. “I see.” He took a drink, and she swore a hint of amusement flashed across his features.

“Perhaps you could go out another night instead.”

“Yeah, it isn’t quite the same. We had plans to meet friends downtown for drinking and dancing, and now it’s all ruined for a lame work party. Anyway, it’s fine.”

He nodded, maybe in understanding or maybe in placation, and they fell into a comfortable silence. She struggled to find something to say to continue the conversation but disregarded idea after idea until she was left with: how about those Rockies?

She didn’t ask.

The sound of his empty bottle clanging against the wood made her shift in her seat, and panic told her not to let him walk away. She didn’t even know his name.

Again, she mentally scrolled through the many polite conversation starters that had been drilled into her from an early age. She’d practiced each often enough at fundraisers and parties during the years she had been forced to attend her father’s campaign events. As she worked out whether to mention the windy, bitter cold weather they were having—God, no—or ask what it was he did for a living—too personal—Michael appeared and cleared away the man’s empty beer bottle.

“Can I get you anything else, Mr. Blackstone?”

Nearly choking on the sip of wine in her mouth, she wanted to crawl under the bar in mortification. Perfect. Somehow the night had gotten worse.

“No thank you, Michael.” He handed Michael a card and turned back to face her with a big grin on his beautiful face.

“You’re Brecken Blackstone?” she asked, annoyed at the quiver in her voice.

He nodded, and his smile pulled higher, revealing a small dimple on one side of his mouth. She focused on that small feature instead of the fact she’d complained about her ruined night to the very man responsible for it. She was still staring as he slid from his seat saying, “I enjoyed talking with you, Miss . . .” He glanced down at her as Michael returned with his card.

“Lyle. January Lyle,” she said in a quiet, breathy voice.

He put the card back in his wallet, dropped a stack of bills onto the signed receipt, and nodded his thanks. Before she’d noticed that his lips were only millimeters from her neck, his breath tickled her skin, sending shivers down her spine. All the air vanished from her lungs as she sat frozen, both afraid and hopeful that he might kiss her. “Happy birthday, January Lyle,” he whispered with a low laugh before disappearing into the sea of cheap suits and silver trays.

January stared after him for a second before turning wide eyes back to Michael.

“I’m mortified!” she said quietly and stole one last glance into the room where Blackstone Software was gathered. “Why didn’t you tell me who he was?”

Shaking his head while he loaded dirty glasses on a tray, Michael held his mouth in a tight line that she knew meant he was biting back a laugh. “I thought you knew! I mean the guy stands out in a place like this.”

“I’m pretty sure he stands out everywhere,” she said before draining her glass. “I should get home. I need to get up early and make some call backs. If I don’t get a new client soon, I’m going to have to apply at Taco Bell to make ends’ meet.”

“Did Mrs. Charlaine’s boss come through with her aunt’s place?”

She sighed and made a pouty face. “No. She wrote a nice recommendation but said her aunt wasn’t ready to let anyone rifle through her stuff.” She rolled her eyes. A common misconception that she found people had when hiring a professional organizer was that she was going to come in and throw everything out or snoop through their stuff. For January, it was a way to bring order—one space, one home at a time.

“We’ll be okay. I’m pulling enough here to keep us afloat until you find your next gig. You only need one big client, and then those snooty, rich people will hear how fabulous you are and you’ll be organizing Louis Vuitton’s and kinky sex closets all over Denver.”

She smiled and nodded, determined to find more work tomorrow. There was no way she was going to allow Michael to feel like he needed to support the both of them. He’d worked too hard opening the bar not to be able to enjoy its amazing reputation and loyal customers.

“I’m heading home. See you in a couple of hours.” She pulled out some cash from her clutch, which Michael waved off as usual.

“Save your money, gorgeous. See you in a bit.”

Reaching over the bar, she shoved the money into the tip jar, stood, and allowed herself one last look. He really was too handsome to be something as incredibly dull as a CEO. A workaholic, no doubt, he probably had his women scheduled in. Although, if she’d learned anything during their brief conversation, it was that Brecken was nothing like he appeared.

Outside, she pulled her wool coat tight around her. The walk to her apartment was only a few blocks, and she was hopeful the cool air would help clear her mind. Despite her birthday shenanigans being a total bust, she walked with a smile on her face. Brecken Blackstone. Saying his name over and over in her head, she smiled bigger each time and decided that he probably wasn’t the boring CEO type she originally thought him to be and that she should have taken him up on his offer.

She could easily picture him commanding an entire boardroom in the same way he had so easily commanded her attention tonight. Still, even knowing he was far out of her league and comfort zone, there was something authentic and unnerving about him. That man was nothing like the rich and powerful men her father rubbed elbows with. The kind that made you constantly guess if they were sincere or blowing smoke to keep everyone happy.