Page 12 of The Celebrity Bidder

And suddenly, I’m not on a rooftop restaurant in Nashville. I’m in a bubble with Wylie Cole—gorgeous, grounded, completely unexpected—and nothing else matters.

“You’re an incredible dancer,” I murmur.

“You’re an incredible woman.”

My breath catches. Sparks flicker through me like a match being struck.

When his mouth finds mine, it’s soft at first—testing, asking. Then he deepens the kiss, and my knees go weak.

I melt into him, gripping his jacket like it’s the only thing tethering me to the ground. His mouth moves over mine with a slow hunger that makes my whole body ache.

When he pulls back, his voice is low. Rough.

“Want to get out of here?”

I hesitate for half a second. Not because I don’t want to. Ido. My body is already halfway gone, nerves tingling, heart racing.

But this—he—is dangerous.

I feel like Cinderella in a fairytale where the ball doesn't end at midnight. A helicopter date, a rooftop dinner, dancing under the stars. And now this? If I sleep with Wylie Cole, I won’t just be giving him my body. I’ll be offering him my heart on a silver platter.

And I’m not sure I’ll get it back.

Still… how can I say no?

I nod.

He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t grin like he’s won. He just takes my hand again, laces our fingers together, and leads me to a private stairwell tucked behind the rooftop’s far corner.

We descend into soft lighting and modern lines—brushed steel and warm wood and plush rugs. Every detail is curated yet cozy.

“This is… part of the restaurant?” I ask.

He glances over his shoulder, eyes dark and intense. “I own the building. The top floor’s my private suite.”

Of course it is.

“The people who served us tonight… they work for you?”

Wylie smiles. “The restaurant is on the first floor of the building. I paid for them to cater a private party for us this evening on the roof.”

“Oh.” My voice is weak. This is too much.He’stoo much. It’s like something from a romance movie—complete with the sexy actor.

As I look around the gorgeous apartment, a brief, unwelcome thought flutters in my chest—how many women has he brought here?

But then his mouth is on mine again, kissing away my doubt, his hands cradling my face like I’m something precious.

And just like that, I stop caring.

“Shall we go to the bedroom?” he asks softly.

I nod, unable to speak. He guides me gently to the bedroom suite. There are floor-to-ceiling windows and a king bed that looks both sinfully soft and dangerously inviting.

He kisses me again, and this time there’s no hesitation. No walls. No pretending this is just physical, just for tonight. I feel it in the way his hands slide up my sides, reverent and eager, like he’s memorizing me with every touch.

His fingers catch the hem of my sweater, and I lift my arms to help him peel it off. A shiver rolls through me—not from the cool air but from the sudden vulnerability. My bra is plain, faded cotton I grabbed in a hurry at Wal-Mart. The kind you buy when you’re thinking about comfort, not seduction.

The women in Wylie’s world probably wear lingerie that costs more than my monthly rent—lacy, delicate, meant to be admired under mood lighting in European hotel suites.

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