The Phoenix Candidate(2)

He accepts, but he’s playing dirty in this staring contest as his finger brushes higher, toward the hem of my dress.

It’s a dress I have no business wearing. Stretchy, black, gathered in all the right places. It hugs the sides of my shoulders, dips low into my cleavage, and flares below my waist. It requires strategic underwear.

Basically, it’s a dress for a girl who’s a decade younger than me, for whom twenty-nine is the top of the world, rather than a memory deep in my rearview mirror.

My breath catches when the man’s fingers reach the hem, his thumbnail tracing a path on the skin of my thigh. I break off the stare and watch his hand, immobile, neither accepting nor rejecting this advance.

He leans close enough for me to catch a hint of his cologne. “Tell me your name.”

“Grace.” I purposely leave Colton where it belongs—on my business cards, my office door, and my seat on the floor of the U.S. House of Representatives. Tonight, I’d like to be just Grace for once. “Tell me yours.”

“Jared.” His fingers keep up their subtle strokes on my thigh. “Grace-who-wants-to-be-alone, Grace from Ah-re-gone, tell me your story.”

“No.” My answer is flat. I twist on the barstool to pull my leg away. I lift my wineglass and stand, searching the dance floor for Aliza and Lacey, ready to get the hell away from this soft-drawling, hot, stubbled stranger. With crinkles.

A hand anchors my hip. “Then no stories tonight.” His tone is lower, more commanding. The playfulness with which he deliberately mispronounced Oregon is gone.

And fuck if it isn’t sexy. The raw power of his voice spins me back toward him, drawing me toward his parted legs, his white button-down shirt.

I rest a hand on his firm chest to keep a few inches between us, but my lungs are on fire, cheeks flushed, and it’s not the wine. It’s his darkened eyes, his slightly lowered lids, the fullness of his mouth, the sharpness of his teeth.

“I don’t think this is a good idea.” I pull back, trying to break the invisible force that draws me in, but my fingers itch to trace his jaw to feel that stubble. “I should go find my friends, keep them company.”

Jared cocks his head, looking over my shoulder for them. “You said you wanted to be alone.” His eyes crinkle with a smile, a light-hearted bullshit flag. He’s got me.

“I did.”

His hands tug at my hips again, pulling me between his legs. “I’d like to help with that.” His chin drops and I feel his warm breath brush my collarbone, sending a shiver down my spine.

“Look, I, ah, I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea. I’m not looking for company—”

“I am.” Jared’s gaze is searching. “Grace, you’re a beautiful woman. You can do whatever you choose, but here’s what I’m offering: No stories. No strings. And no regrets in the morning.”

I still, my breath torn from my chest, alarmed and totally aroused by the directness of his demand. Command. No way in hell that was just an offer.

He takes the half-full wineglass from my fingers and places it on the bar. Then his hand is back on my hip, his fingers pressing into my flesh, testing me.

He’s crossing a line.

I am, too.





Chapter Two





We are consenting adults. We are consenting adults.

That’s the soundtrack running through my head as he leads me a few blocks through downtown Portland to The Nines Hotel. He wraps my arm under his, lacing our fingers together, and I feel energy zing through that connection.

I text Lacey and Aliza that I’m heading out, leaving out the fact that I’m with someone. A crinkly-eyed stranger. They’d pass out from shock.

There’s a briefcase on Jared’s hotel-room desk, a sleek laptop and a few folders set at careful angles. Neat. Precise.

“Are you here on business?” I ask to break the silence from our walk.

“Yes.” He doesn’t offer more and I don’t dare ask. No stories. No strings. I don’t want any questions in return.

“Thirsty?” He nods to a pair of heavy glass tumblers on a mini-fridge. Then he closes the space between us, his hands again on my hips. Possessive. “Hungry?”

I bite my lip and slide my gaze away from his. It’s too raw, too intense, and I’m not experienced enough in the realm of one night stands to know quite what to do next.

His thumb tugs my lower lip from my teeth. “That’s my job,” he says. His mouth lowers toward mine, head tilts, and I close my eyes, waiting for the kiss to come.

It doesn’t.

My eyes snap open and meet his, dark and intense, like he’s looking through me for an answer. I move my hands up his back, testing the muscles beneath his shirt, tracing the smooth column of spine.