I've always lived by certain rules.
Rule #1: Don't trust a man who winks while wearing a suit.
Rule #2: When wearing heels, always have a plan for an emergency escape.
The third rule: One-night stands? Absolutely not.
I broke all three in one night, of course. alongside Ethan Blackwood.
The French 75, the dance, and the way he gazed at me as though I were the most intriguing glitch in his otherwise flawlessly coded world are all to blame.
In actuality, though, it was him.
And perhaps a tiny bit of me.
He was staring at me like I was some lovely mystery he wasn't sure he deserved but couldn't stop unwrapping, and I was laughing too hard to feel my feet when we staggered out of the hotel's rooftop elevator.
"Remind me how you survived a gala crash." We stopped outside his suite and he asked, holding his keycard.
"Charm. Guts. and a slight addiction to chaos.
As soon as the door clicked open, I found myself in his world—cool colors, crisp lines, and a spotless environment that made my apartment appear like a toddler's crayon drawing.
I muttered, "Wow."
He whispered, "I was thinking the same thing."
He was already close when I turned, prepared to deflect with a joke. His hand brushed my cheek. He looked down at my mouth. That was the end of it.
We shared a kiss.
A kiss that doesn't test the waters.
Kind of drowning kind.
His lips moved as though he had been anticipating this—for me—and I answered as though I had been waiting for this moment my entire life.
Clothes fall to the ground. The rules were broken.
As if gravity were working extra hard for us, we fell into bed.
When I needed him to be rough, he was intense and gentle, focused and unrestrained, and unexpectedly soft. I always said yes when he asked. Again and again.
When it was over, I tried to convince myself it didn't matter as I stared at the ceiling while we lay there tangled in silk sheets and something that felt dangerously like emotion.
that it was a brief affair.
A mistake.
A lovely error The "Do Not Repeat" file would be stored in my mind.
He brushed a lock of hair out of my face as he reached over. "Remain," he said.
I really wanted to, God help me.
However, I never stayed.
Not until it began to feel real. Not then, in particular.
I pushed myself up and ignored the ache in every part of me that wanted to curl up with him, whispering, "I should go."
For a moment, his hand touched mine.
Then he relaxed.
No inquiries. Not a drama. As I collected my dress and dignity and slipped out the door, I smiled softly, but not enough to read.
Back to the world where my only possessions were borrowed clothing and poor choices.
I couldn't have known at the time that I had just agreed to the most significant plot twist of my life.
One with a last name I never would have imagined:
Blackwood.