ROXIE
The rain hitting the glass of the St. Regis lounge sounded like a countdown.
I stared at the scratched screen of my phone, ignoring the flashing notification from a number I’d memorized out of pure terror. Twenty-four hours, Roxie. Pay up, or we liquidate your mother’s shop permanently.
I didn’t have the money. My mother was unconscious in a county hospital bed, completely unaware that the underground lender she’d turned to for a business loan was about to tear our lives apart. I had come to New York because a cryptic letter from a high-end law firm promised a resolution to a "family estate matter." I assumed it was a scam. A mistake. But desperation makes you board a greyhound bus with forty bucks left in your pocket.
"Another cheap gin, please," I told the bartender, my voice tight. "And keep the change."
There wouldn't be any change. I was spending my last ten dollars just to sit in a warm room where the men wore watches that cost more than my childhood home. I felt entirely out of place in my faded leather jacket and damp boots.
Then, the air in the room changed.
The heavy glass doors of the lounge swung open, and a man walked in. He didn't just enter the room; he owned it. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a charcoal tailored suit that screamed old money and absolute authority. His hair was damp from the storm, pushed back carelessly, revealing a sharp, aristocratic jawline and dark eyes that scanned the lounge with pure, refined cynicism.
He looked bored and dangerous. Like a wolf checking a sheep pen.
Our eyes locked for a fraction of a second. A strange, electric jolt shot straight down my spine. I quickly looked back down at my drink, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Just then a shadow fell over my stool. A deep, rich voice baritone vibrated right next to my ear.
"That gin looks miserable," the man said.
I looked up. He was standing right next to me, a faint, mocking smirk playing on his lips. Up close, his presence was suffocatingly intense.
"It matches my mood," I snapped back, my defensive walls slamming up instantly. "And I prefer drinking alone."
The man didn't move. Instead, he pulled out the stool next to me and sat down, his tailored shoulder brushing against mine. The physical contact made my skin flush.
"Good thing I’m not asking for your permission," he said smoothly, signaling the bartender. "Put whatever she wants on my tab. And bring me a Macallan."
He turned those piercing, dark eyes directly to me. "I'm Garrison. And you look like a beautiful distraction from a very bad day."
The corner of my mouth twitched. Normally, I would have torn an arrogant guy like him apart with a few sharp words. But tonight? Tonight, my life was a crumbling house of cards, and a billionaire distraction was exactly what I needed to stop the panic from choking me.
"A distraction, huh?" I tilted my head, leaning my elbow on the polished mahogany bar. "That's a pretty confident line, Garrison. What makes you think you're interesting enough to distract me?"
Garrison poured himself into the stool, his heavy gaze tracking the movement of my lips. A dangerous, slow-burning smile spread across his face.
"Try me," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "Give me ten minutes. If you're still thinking about whatever is making you stare at your phone like it's a ticking bomb, I’ll leave you alone. Deal?"
"Ten minutes," I agreed, checking my cheap watch. "The clock is ticking."
He didn't waste a second. For the next hour, the storm outside vanished. Garrison was sharp, intensely focused, and possesses an incurable wit that kept me completely on my toes.
He didn't ask boring small-talk questions; instead, he challenged me, challenged my theories, and laughed with a deep, rumbling sound that made my chest tighten every time I heard it. For the first time in months, I wasn't Roxie the desperate daughter trying to outrun a criminal lender. I was just a woman being pursued by a man who looked like sin in a tailored suit.
By the time the bartender cleared our third round of drinks, the air between us was thick with pure, unadulterated tension. Every time Garrison leaned in closer to speak over the lounge music, his breath brushed against my neck, sending shivers straight down my spine.
"Your ten minutes were up a long time ago," I whispered, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm.
"I know," Garrison said softly. He reached out, his long fingers gently catching a stray lock of my damp hair and tucking it behind my ear. His knuckles brushed my jawline, and the heat of his skin made me gasp quietly.
His dark eyes darkened, dropping down to my mouth. "I have no intention of letting you go tonight, Roxie."
The sheer honesty of his desire made my head spin. I wanted him. I wanted to forget the world, forget the debt, and lose myself in the absolute power of this man for just one night.
He leaned in closer, his lips mere inches from mine, his scent of expensive cedarwood and rain wrapping around me.
Right as his mouth was about to press against mine, a loud buzz vibrated in his jacket pocket.
Garrison swore under his breath, breaking the spell. He pulled out a sleek black phone, looking at the screen. His expression instantly hardened back into the ruthless corporate wolf I’d seen walk through the door.
"I have to take this," he said, his voice tight with frustration. He stood up, placing a crisp hundred-dollar bill on the counter. He looked down at me, his eyes burning with unfinished business. "Don't move. I’ll be back in two minutes. And then we're leaving here together."
He walked briskly toward the quiet hallway near the restrooms.
I sat there, my chest heaving, staring at the empty stool next to me. The sudden distance made reality crash back into my brain like a tidal wave. What am I doing? I thought, looking at my phone's lock screen. My mother is in a hospital bed. A lender is coming for us. I'm here trying to hook up with a New York prince.
Panic seized me. If I stayed, I would lose my mind in him. I couldn't afford a distraction. I needed to get back to my cheap motel room and prepare for the terrifying law firm meeting tomorrow morning.
I grabbed my leather jacket, threw it on, and practically ran out into the pouring New York rain before Garrison could ever make it back to the bar.
****************
THE NEXT MORNING
The offices of Vance International looked like a fortress of glass and steel.
I adjusted the collar of my only decent blazer—a thrift-store find, and tried to calm my shaking hands as the elevator smoothly glided up to the 50th-floor penthouse suite. The cryptic letter from the attorney was clutched in my fist, wrinkled from how hard I was gripping it.
The elevator doors chimed and opened into a massive, mahogany-lined boardroom. A team of lawyers in identical grey suits sat around a giant glass table.
"Ah, Miss Sterling," an elderly lawyer at the head of the table said, standing up. "We've been waiting for you. Please, take a seat. We are just waiting on the primary heir, and then we can begin the reading of your grandfather's will."
"My grandfather?" I breathed, completely bewildered. "I don't have a—"
Before I could finish, the heavy double doors of the boardroom swung open.
A man strode in, unbuttoning his charcoal suit jacket. He looked commanding, powerful, and completely rigid.
My breath caught in my throat. The room spun.
It was Garrison.
Garrison stopped dead in his tracks, his dark eyes locking onto me. The cynical, professional mask on his face instantly shattered, replaced by pure, absolute shock. He stared at my face, then down at my clothes, before his eyes darkened with a dangerous, furious realization.
The elderly lawyer smiled warmly, entirely oblivious to the electric panic suffocating the room.
"Excellent, everyone is here," the lawyer announced, tapping his paperwork. "Garrison, please sit down. Meet Roxie Sterling. According to your late grandfather's secret legal filings... she is your long-lost half-sister."