Page 44 of Tagging Bases

“Smart man,” the bartender chimes in as he wipes down the bar with a tea towel.

“We’re glad you could make it, Mr. Hollingsworth,” Emily says.

“You can call me Daniel. Mr. Hollingsworth is my father.” I point him out.

“Oh, yes. I met him briefly before.”

The way she says it causes the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end. “Did he?—”

“Talk way too much about you? Yes.”

I blow out a breath. “He loves to do that. I’d tell him to cut it out, but he never listens to me. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she says. “I liked what I heard.”

I cock an eyebrow and glance at the bartender. He smirks at me, and I scowl. “I’m?—”

“Taken,” she assumes incorrectly. And because I’m a wise man, I don’t correct her. “Whoever the lady is, she’s a lucky woman. Will she be joining you tonight?”

Yeah, because that wasn’t subtle as fuck.“No. I’m going stag tonight.” And then I scowl again when she archeshereyebrows.

“If you need a dance partner later, I’ll be around.”

I nod politely before returning my attention to the drink menu, hoping she’ll get the hint. Thankfully, she does.

“She’s pretty,” the bartender says softly after she walks away to greet the other guests arriving.

“I’m not interested,” I say, not meeting his gaze. “I’ll take a sparkling water, please.”

The bartender rears back, surprised by my request. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” If I’m going to survive tonight, I’ll need my wits about me.

The bartender passes me my sparkling water. I take a sip and enjoy how the bubbles tickle my throat as they go down. Hopping onto one of the barstools, I study the bartender as he continues cleaning his station.

He’s a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and a handlebar mustache. His face invites conversation. “Hey, man. What do you know about Susan and Bill? They must be pretty important people to be having a shindig like this, huh?”

He drapes the towel over his shoulder. “Oh, they’re big shots, all right. Real estate tycoons. They own half the buildings in Manhattan.”

“Impressive. Have they always lived in the city?”

The bartender shakes his head. “They moved here from Chicago about twenty years ago, shortly after the birth of their son. They started their empire by flipping properties.” He picks up a glass and polishes it. “Rumor has it they play dirty, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Their son is about your age now, if I’m not mistaken,” the bartender says, eyeing me. “He’s around here somewhere.”

Hopefully, he’s not a trust fund brat who wants to “network” with me. I hate those guys. They think their shit doesn’t stink,and if you don’t act the same way they do, you’re persona non grata.

The bartender scans the room. “There he is. Over by the hors d’oeuvres.”

I follow his gaze and promptly choke on my sparkling water. Standing by a tower of shrimp cocktails, looking as if he stepped off a fashion runway, is Harrison Price.

He’s wearing a sleek black number with a skinny tie. His dirty-blond hair is artfully tousled, and his blue eyes sparkle under the bright lights. He has a plate in his hand and is popping shrimp into his mouth as if they’re M&M’s.

I stare, my brain glitching, sending sparks down my spine and straight to my cock.Harrison is Susan and Bill’s son?

Reflecting on what the bartender said about his parents’ activities, it all makes sense. And while it’s surprising to see him here, considering he loathes this world, I can’t deny he fits the part in an outfit that does wonders for his lean physique.

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