“No, miss! Careful!” the waiter—he was close enough for me to see he was a waiter—yelped, but it was already too late. I held onto the edge of his tray, the one carrying enough champagne to turn a bottomless brunch into a never-ending mimosa marathon, and pulled on it to steady myself.

  The good news?

  I did manage to steady myself.

  The bad news? The waiter didn’t.

  The poor man stumbled, the tray flew up into the air, and a tidal wave of champagne washed all over us and whoever was in the blast zone. Well, at least I wasn’t falling anymore. Instead, I was just drowning in champagne. Not a good way start to the night.

  I rushed to help the waiter, definitely faster than I should’ve, and tripped again. The ground rushed up to meet me—again—and I braced myself for impact.

  And that’s when he showed up.

  “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” His voice was deep, vibrant, angry. And then there was his hand. His long, strong fingers, were wrapped tight around my elbow, mercifully keeping me in an upright position while sending a pleasant shiver up my spine.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t see where I was going. It’s not his fault. I didn’t have my glasses on, and I… oh, hell with it.” I pulled back from the man’s hold, reached inside my purse, and grabbed my oversized hot pink, rhinestone-encrusted cat eyeglasses.

  They weren’t a fashion statement—instead, they were meant to be a joke. The kind of glasses to have around as back-up, nothing but a fun prop to get a laugh during a dinner party. Of course, God has a twisted sense of humor, and last night I sat on my regular glasses and my next batch of contacts didn’t get here in time before Cassie’s bachelorette party. Cue the unwise decision to not wear any glasses tonight.

  As I balanced the glasses on my nose, the world came into focus.

  “What in the world has just happened?” The owner of that shiver-inducing voice was still standing directly in front of me, his expression that of someone who’d just caught a trespasser trying to pocket the silver cutlery. Whether he was annoyed at me or the waiter, I couldn’t really tell. “Are you alright…miss?”

  The words coming out of his mouth were polite enough, but his face worded it differently: instead of ‘are you alright?’ what I heard was ‘are you alright in the head?’

  “I… Well, I…”

  Jesus Christ, Katie, I thought, keep it together. You can do this. You can put a coherent sentence together.

  Still, the words didn’t come easily. In a futile attempt to clear my head, I turned my gaze to the poor waiter, his white shirt now a pale shade of yellow, and then back to the man standing in front of me. He was…

  Damn.

  He just was.

  Tall and with broad shoulders, he wore a crisp black shirt that hugged his lean torso in the most appetizing of ways. His face had a blend of hard and smooth features—as if they’d been carved from marble and then carefully polished to perfection—and his eyes. They were just…

  Focus, for God’s sake, my inner voice commanded. I know it’s been a long time, but not the time or place!

  “Anybody home?” The man insisted, waving his open palm in front of my eyes. “What exactly happened here?”

  “I’m so sorry,” I repeated, quickly rushing to the waiter’s side to check up on him. It was the least I could do. “I’m fine, really, I am. But you⁠—”

  “I’m fine, miss.” The waiter waved me away as politely as he could, his eyes honing in on the carpet of shattered glass littering the club floor, and closed his eyes. I was having a bad day, but his didn’t seem to be going much better.

  And all because of me.

  “Take care of this, Fernando,” the brooding man in the black shirt said to the poor waiter. A quick snap of his fingers and a small battalion of waiters materialized out of thin air. Like a well-oiled machine, the group cordoned off the mess and started picking up the glass and moping the floor, working up a storm as the party raged all around us.

  I hated it.

  I had come here to have some fun, not to make people’s lives harder. And this club… God, this club wasn’t what I’d expected. At all.

  Given its location on the top floor of one of the tallest buildings in Miami, I was expecting more of a Miami Beach vibe complete with neon and palm trees. But now, I was amazed at what I could only describe as elegance… on steroids. The interior was monochromatic navy with low leather banquettes surrounding the dancefloor, blue-black paint on the walls, and, looking up, chandeliers that shimmered like rain, all of which made Bloom feel more like a posh members-only club. Everything was lush and decadently comfortable, and I could not feel more out of place.

  “I feel terrible, truly. I can pay for⁠—”

  “Certainly not,” the man—some kind of floor manager, I assumed—cut in. “Accidents happen and…” He narrowed his eyes at me, his expression going from annoyance to… shock? He was looking into my eyes hard enough to tear my soul to shreds, and my body heated up from the inside out. Only then did I realize he was looking at my glasses. “What exactly are these?”

  Oh, his tone…I could tolerate some abuse, but not this.

  “Glasses,” I replied, the word carrying a sharp edge. “You know, for seeing.”

  “And are they working?” He shot right back at me, eyebrow cocked. His eyes weren’t lasers, but I could almost feel the eyeglasses’ plastic frame melting against my face.

  Sure, I get it: as far as clubs go, Club Bloom was the pinnacle of the Miami party industry. You didn’t get in unless you were literally made of money or looked like a movie star. I was certainly not made of money, and I figured my glasses didn’t quite fit the Hollywood style…but I sure as hell didn’t appreciate being judged by my appearance. Even if I wasn’t particularly proud of it.

  “Maybe something more practical would’ve been better,” he continued, eyeing up the stairs that had almost killed me. “How exactly did you miss these? They’re not hard to⁠—”

  “I wasn’t wearing my glasses,” I admitted. “Sure, I should’ve, because if I were, I⁠—”

  “Oh, so these don’t improve sight,” he said. “They just work in hindsight, huh? Got it.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a second, looking as if he were trying to stop himself from flattening me with his stupid puns. “I guess I can’t blame you for not wanting to wear them.” He pressed his lips together, an amused glint on his eyes. Clearly, whoever this guy was, he was struggling to keep it professional. He could tell I didn’t belong here, and he was having fun at my expense… and yet, as infuriating as this was, I couldn’t find the words to fight back. My brain was too preoccupied with the perfect symmetry of his jawline, and with the way his lips seem so damn kissable. The man was, obviously, one of fate’s cruel jokes: an attitude so abrasive he could strip paint off walls…but hidden inside a package so hot it should come with a warning label. “Look, it’s fine, next time just—oh.”

  His eyes fell from my face to my body, and I suddenly became very conscious of how my dress was clinging to my curves. I didn’t remember it being so tight… or so uncomfortably wet.

  “Oh, shit,” I muttered, patting the drenched fabric of my ruined dress. “I’m all⁠—”

  “Wet?” The man offered, that suppressed smirk now blooming on his lips. He paused for a heartbeat, struggling to wipe that stupid smirk off his face, and only then did he continue. “Apologies for all this, miss, truly. Our wonderful ladies’ lounge attendant has an entire dry cleaner’s closet of supplies and will get you tidied right up for the rest of the evening. Your evening’s festivities are on me, of course, as well as a replacement for…” he trailed off, trying to guess the brand of my dress and failing miserably. “… that.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my dress!” I pinched the wet fabric away from my torso. The movement pulled the dress tight against my ass and revealed a few inches more of my legs. Immediately, an uncomfortable warmth spread across my face as I tried to pull the dress back down.

  “I didn’t say there was.” He pressed his lips together again—was he trying to keep himself from laughing?—and forced his eyes to move up from my neckline to my face. “You just look⁠—”

  “Wet, I know.”

  “Please,” he insisted, making an effort to keep that professional tone of his, “let us⁠—”

  Uh-huh.

  Enough of this.

  “Not necessary. I can pay my own way, and I can handle this myself.” I rolled my shoulders back and straightened my back. I looked like a wet fish some alley cat had dragged from the street, and my stupid eyeglasses certainly didn’t help matters, but I still clung to what little dignity I had left. Whoever this condescending idiot was, I didn’t need his stupid assistance, nor did I need to be indebted to him… even if he had a Danger! Nuclear! ranking on the hotness scale. “Anyway, I don’t think I’ll be here long.”

  “At least let me help you find your group,” he paused, and I could see him carefully trying to pick his next words. “Or your date, if that’s the case.”

  “No date.” The words escaped my lips faster than my brain could process them.

  “Oh?” His smirk was back. “And can I assume you’re not trying to get a date either? I mean, I hate to bring up the glasses again, but…”

  “You listen here, Mr. 20-20 vision,” I snapped. “Not all of us are blessed with good eyesight, and I certainly don’t want or need a date. Even if…”

  Even if that date was you, I almost blurted.

  “Even if…?” He prompted, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes were locked on mine, and I could almost feel him trying to read my mind. The jerk was sneaking into my brain, disarranging my thoughts, and enjoying every second of it.

  “I don’t have to explain myself to you!”

  “Of course not. I just thought that you were about to say that…” He trailed off and, even though I knew he was doing it on purpose, I couldn’t help myself.

  “That what?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

  I wanted to strangle him.

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  Leslie North, The Grouchy One: A Bosshole Grump-Sunshine Billionaire Romance

 

 

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