Page 7 of Before Dawn

He sat back, picking up his drink again, clearly enjoying my reaction. “So, no girlfriend,” he added, taking a slow, casual sip.

Trying to steer the conversation away from my reckless thoughts, I asked, “Do you… own here?”

He shook his head. “Dillon does. I own a luxury transport service.”

Hot, Hispanic, and an entrepreneur? Great. As if he wasn’t already unfairly attractive.

“So, is this your ideal Friday night?” I asked, curiosity creeping into my voice. “Hanging out at a club?”

He tilted his head slightly, considering my question. “Not exactly my usual scene,” he admitted. “I’m just here for moral support.” His fingers tapped against his glass, his lips curving. “And a good drink while he does business.”

Yeah, businessclearlynamed Azzaria Jane Willis.

I leaned in a little, letting the dim lighting mask the smirk tugging at my lips. “Sounds like a lot of dedication.”

His eyes sparkled with mischief as he met my gaze. His next shrug was slower, more deliberate. “Dedication?” he echoed, his voice dipping just enough to add a flirtatious edge. “I just enjoy good company.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Good company?”

He chuckled softly, leaning back, his elbow resting lazily on the sofa’s arm. “I’m here talking to you, aren’t I?” His gaze flickered down, tracking the lazy circle my finger made against my thigh before lifting back to my face. His next words were smoother than silk. “I’d say that’s a pretty clear sign.”

The heat rose in my cheeks, but I played it off with a light laugh, refusing to let him know he was getting to me. “You’re smooth,” I admitted, shaking my head as I took a sip of my drink. “Is that how you get your clients? Or is this just for me?”

His grin widened, flashing just enough teeth to be dangerous.God help me.

“You think I talk to my clients like this?” He gave a mock look of offense. “You must have me confused with someone else.” Then, he leaned in closer, his voice dropping into a deeper, more intimate tone.

“You say that to all the girls, don’t you?”

“You’re a woman,” he corrected smoothly. “Not a girl.”

The word struck like a spark—sharp, deliberate, and electrifying. It hung between us, sending a slow, unexpected heat curling in my stomach. There was something about the way he said it—steady, laced with a hint of admiration—that made me feel seen in a way I hadn’t in far too long.

“But to answer your question,” he murmured, his eyes holding mine hostage, “only the ones I meet in airports.”

A thrill sparked down my spine.Oh, hell.

“You must meet plenty of girls—I mean women—in airports, then?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even as my pulse raced.

He shook his head slowly, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just an unforgettable redhead I saw three weeks ago—about 5’5”, striking green eyes, a sprinkle of freckles—five or six at most, and a floral maxi dress.”

My breath hitched as the memory crashed over me.

He remembered everything.

Not just the moment—me. My height, my clothes, my eyes, even the freckles I barely acknowledged myself.

This wasn’t just flirting.

This was far more dangerous.

“Unforgettable redhead, huh?” I murmured, meeting his gaze with a flirtatious smile, even as my heart hammered in my chest. “Lucky me.”

“Luck?” He gave a slow shake of his head, his voice dipping just enough to draw me in. “Nah. I’d say blessed.”

With a tap of his glass on the table, my thoughts scattered.

“Right,” I whispered, trying to get a grip.

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