Page 34 of Playboy For Hire

Because no, he hadn’t. Not in the way he meant. I wasn’t a damsel whose honor had been ravaged. But also, yes, he had, because that kiss was really fucking good, and I couldn’t get it out of my head, and even now, I was fighting the urge to pull him in again, except I knew Ryder wasn’t actually serious about kissing me another time.

He was just drunk. And an idiot. He didn’t want me. If he did, he would have tried to run Ewan off, tried to keep me for himself instead of selling me to him. But no. He’d been trying to help. In his ridiculous, absurd, completely unhelpful way.

I sighed. “No. You didn’t. Not in the way you mean, anyway.”

“Really?” Ryder brightened. “Because you seemed kinda mad when you left.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I really don’t want you to be mad at me. I know that sounds stupid, but I’d like us to be friends. And I don’t want to hurt a friend. I mean, I don’t want to hurt anybody, but especially not someone like you.”

I just stared at him. Even drunk, even chagrined, his gray eyes had the power to make me feel like I was the only person in the whole world. The only guy he ever wanted to look at. But that was exactly why we couldn’t be friends.

There was no way I could be around Ryder for more than five minutes without wanting him. And underneath all the playful flirtation, Ryder was a straight guy, and a player, and he didn’t want me.

“I’m sorry,” I told him. “But that’s not what I want. And I have to go. Enjoy the rest of your beer.”

Ryder was also directly responsible for how poorly my next date went.

Okay, maybe notdirectlyresponsible, but certainly indirectly. Because when Joe, a hot CEO of a local wildlife conservation nonprofit, messaged me a week later and struck up a conversation, I was determined not to let the date go badly.

Joe was chatty, and aggressively interested in me. Or maybe aggressive wasn’t the right word—maybe just forthright. It wasrefreshing the way he just came right out and said what he thought.

JOE: I like you a lot from talking to you and I’d love to meet in person. Are you free?

I’d said yes, and he seemed really happy. Enough that he texted me the next day, saying he was excited to meet me. He texted again the day after that. When we finally set a date for drinks at a bar called The Dartmoor on Thursday evening, I was more excited than I’d been in a long time.

I was not going to let Ryder ruin this for me. First of all, I wasn’t going to let him know Ihadanother date. We hadn’t talked since I’d seen him, and that was fine with me. But I also wasn’t going to let memories of Ryder get in my head and make me freeze up. This date was going to go well.

I’d never been to The Dartmoor before, which made me a little nervous. And because I get awkward when I get nervous, I decided to counteract that by having an espresso and then a shot of vodka before the date. I also decided to get to the bar early, just to get the lay of the land.

The place was tiny, with a maze-like warren of rooms that were barely wider than a hallway, tiny tables crammed in every spare bit of space. I picked a table right by the front door and windows, so I wouldn’t feel too hemmed in, and so I could see Joe coming.

A server asked if I wanted anything to drink while I waited, and I ordered a glass of pinot noir. I was so antsy, I gulped half of it down as soon as he handed it to me, and when he asked if I wanted a refill, I said yes.

So I was two and a half drinks in when Joe arrived, late but very apologetic. I was buzzed from both alcohol and caffeine,but extremely glad of it, because Joe was even better looking in person. He was talkative, paid attention to what I said, and had a lot of funny stories about work.

He was a little high-handed, maybe. When the server came back, he didn’t even look at the menu. He just said, “Macallan 18-year sherry oak single malt. Neat.”

“We don’t have that,” the server said apologetically, proffering the menu again.

“Well, you should,” Joe said. “It’s the best.” His voice was playful, but his eyes were a little intense.

“Yeah, probably,” the server agreed, laughing a little. “I’ll tell the management. But in the meantime, we do have Johnnie Walker Black, or Glenfiddich 12-year single malt. Or if you want to look at the menu—”

“Glenfiddich will be fine,” Joe sighed. Then he pointed to me. “And he’ll have the Johnnie Walker, with a dash of water.”

I blinked. I hadn’t been paying attention—all the words Joe was tossing around meant nothing to me. But I didn’t particularly want any scotch.

“I already have a drink,” I said.

“Yeah, but this is so much better. You’ll regret ordering your wine once you taste this.”

His tone was still playful. I supposed he was just really confident. And he’d hardly even glanced at my birthmark, which was impressive. None of my pictures online showed that side of my face, so I was used to some double-takes, but Joe seemed like he’d barely noticed.

So I drank the scotch when it came. It made me cough, but I tried to smile through it.

“Yeah, it’s really peaty,” he said. “That’s why I ordered yours watered down. Most people can’t handle it straight.”

I couldn’t decide if that was patronizing or just thoughtful. Joe kept complimenting me, though.

“You look even better in person,” he said, flashing me the kind of smile I wasn’t used to getting from guys.

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