“Oh, man.”
The sun sneaks through the curtains, teasing my eyelids open. I stretch a little, my body aching from the previous night’s activities. I roll over and check my phone.
It’s almost eleven. I hear the faint clatter of dishes coming from down the hall, mingling with the heavenly scent of breakfast.
My stomach growls, reminding me I barely ate last night.
Stretching lazily, I again feel that delicious ache in my muscles. Heat rushes to my cheeks as fragments of the night flash through my mind: his hands gripping my hips, his lips trailing fire across my skin, his body pressing me into the mattress.
I remember the way he looked on top of me, those gorgeous muscles flexing and tensing. I remember the final thrust, the one that pushed us both over the edge, his cock erupting inside me.
The way he pulled me close afterward, his hand absently tracing circles on my back, his steady breathing lulling me into a peace I hadn’t felt in years.
The cuddling. That part still surprises me. I’ve never been the type. It can become too messy. Too intimate. But with Samuel, it felt right. Like I belonged there, wrapped up in him.
The faint scent of him lingers in the sheets, woodsy and masculine, and I bury my face in the pillow for a moment, breathing it in. I want to bottle it up, wrap myself in it.
I get up and head over to the window, the view taking my breath away. The trees sway in a gentle breeze, and I’m amazed again by the quiet and pure beauty. Although the view from the guest room is nice, this is a sight I haven’t seen in a long time. My apartment views offered nothing but rusted fire escapes and trash-strewn alleys. This is something else entirely.
My stomach growls again, louder this time, and I chuckle softly to myself.
I turn, hoping to find one of his T-shirts to put on, spotting a nightstand drawer not fully closed.
It’s not my business, but all the same, I can’t help myself. I need to know who the hell Samuel is, even if I have to snoop a little to find out.
I go over to the drawer and pull it open. Inside is a framed photo of a beautiful woman. She looks to be in her early thirties, with dark, almost black, curly hair and eyes blue as the sky. I take out the photo and stare. She’s stunning. The warm smile on her face makes it seem like the person taking the picture is the only thing that matters to her.
Who is she?
A clatter sounds from the kitchen, and I come back to my senses. I slip the picture back into the drawer and shut it.
I slip out into the hall and pad over to the room Samuel had originally shown me as mine. The sheets are untouched, the room pristine, and it feels foreign compared to the warmth of his space.
I rummage through my bag and pull on a tank top and shorts. As I do, the woman from the photo appears in my mind again.
Is he married? My stomach tenses at the idea. I’d been in such a daze when he’d carried me up to the bedroom last night that I hadn’t noticed the picture. Had he forgotten to hide it? But if he’s married, why would he insist on me staying with him? Is this really his home, or just a place he brings women he wants to fuck? He doesn’t seem the type, but then again, I don’t really know him.
I push all of those thoughts from my mind and finish getting dressed.
As I head down the hall, the sounds of the kitchen grow louder. The clink of a pan, the hiss of something sizzling, and Samuel’s low hum—off-key, but charming as hell.
I pause just before entering the kitchen, letting myself take it all in. The man, the scent of coffee and eggs, the warmth in my chest I can’t seem to shake.
Don’t get used to this, I think to myself. But I know I already am. All the same, he might be hiding something from me, so I need to stay on my guard.
I step into the kitchen to find Samuel standing at the stove, his back to me, the muscles in his broad shoulders shifting beneath his fitted T-shirt as he flips something in a pan. His dark hair is slightly messy, and somehow, that only makes him look hotter.
“Good morning,” I say, my voice softer than I intended.
He turns, and when he smiles, my heart stumbles over itself. Damn it. No man should be this handsome. His sharp jawline, those piercing brown eyes, the way the corners of his mouth lift just enough to give him that mix of charm and danger. It’s unfair.
“You hungry?” he asks.
“Sure am. Something smells amazing.”
“Just a little sausage and eggs. There’s toast, too, if you want it.” He nods toward one of the kitchen bar stools. “Sit. It’s almost ready.”
The counter is already set with silverware and glasses of orange juice. I watch him work, his arms moving with precision as he plates everything, the delicious smells wrapping around me.
When he places the food in front of me, I’m momentarily speechless. The omelet is golden, fluffy, and stuffed with what looks like spinach, cheese, and diced tomatoes. Next to it, perfectly cooked sausage glistens under the morning light, paired with toast just the right shade of brown.
“This looks incredible.”
“Wait until you taste it,” he says, taking the seat beside me.
I cut into the omelet, the cheese stretching in gooey ribbons, and take a bite. It’s rich, savory, and so damn good I can’t stop the small moan that escapes me. His chuckle pulls my attention away, and I glance up to see him watching me with an amused expression.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says.
“Trust me, it is,” I reply, pointing my fork at him before taking another bite.
For a few minutes, we eat in comfortable silence. Then he looks at me in an odd way, like he’s trying to stare right into my soul.
“What is it?” I ask, my mouth full. “You look like you’re trying to read my mind.”
“Maybe I am, in a manner of speaking. Tell me about yourself, Erin.”
I force a smirk as I take another bite of my omelet. “Tell you about myself? Why?”
He grins. “Because I’m too into you to not be all kinds of curious about who you are, where you came from.”
The moment feels too easy, too intimate, and for a second, I debate telling him anything about my past. I’ve got too much baggage, too much history. Maybe I should keep him in the dark, let him see me as Erin the bartender, not the woman running from a life I can’t erase.
All it would take would be a few well-placed lies, lies I’ve perfected over the years about how I’m just a middle-class girl from Schaumburg, Illinois, how I lost my parents when I was a teenager, and I moved to Denver to leave all of that behind.
Just a few little lies, same as always.
So why does lying to Samuel seem totally unacceptable?
I glance at him, arching a brow. “And if my past sounds like something out of a mob movie?”
His smirk widens. “If you were hoping I would lose interest, you’re all kinds of wrong.”
“Alright,” I say quietly as I set my fork down. I place my hands in my lap, my fingers twisting around the napkin. “You asked for it.”
His posture straightens slightly, his gaze steady as he waits for me to begin. I hesitate, my thoughts swirling as I try to figure out how much I’m willing to share. After a deep breath, I decide to take a leap. Finally, for the first time in years, I’m telling someone the truth.
“My mom died when I was young,” I start. “I don’t remember much about her. Just little things like her laugh, the way she smelled. After she was gone, it was just me and my dad.”
Samuel’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“My dad,” I continue, swallowing hard, “was a high-ranking member of the Italian mob. Controlling doesn’t even begin to describe him. Everything I did, every decision I tried to make… it was all him. I felt more like a possession than a daughter.”
Samuel’s eyes darken, and a muscle begins ticking in his jaw, but he stays silent. I can tell he hates the idea of me being controlled.
“When I turned eighteen, I couldn’t do it anymore. I packed what I could carry, changed my name, and disappeared. I moved here from Chicago. I worked for years in the city, and I thought I was free, but…” I trail off, the memory of Misha’s leering face flickering in my mind. “Then I got mixed up with Misha.”
“Misha,” Samuel repeats, a disgusted tone to his voice.
“Yeah. I worked at his strip club as a bartender. It seemed like a good way to stay under the radar, but he had other ideas. He wanted more from me, wanted me to become a back-room girl, and when I said no, things got ugly.” I shrugged. “And that’s where you come into the story.”
His hands flex on the counter, his knuckles whitening slightly. “Does your dad know him? Sounds like they’re in the same kind of business.”
I shake my head. “Not as far as I know. They’re from different circles. They should be enemies, actually. But that doesn’t mean my dad’s reach couldn’t find me if he wanted to.”
“So your dad just… let you go?”
I shrug. “I’m guessing he was glad to be done with me. The man always treated me like a burden anyway, a distraction from his ‘empire,’ as he called it.”
Samuel takes a moment to process it all, shaking his head and running his hand through his hair. “That’s a hell of a story, Erin.”
I force a small, tight smile, shrugging like it’s nothing. “I know it is. And now you know why I don’t hand it out freely.”
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, his dark eyes studying me like he’s piecing together a puzzle. “You’re tougher than you look. And that’s no small thing—I already think you’re pretty goddamn tough.”
I laugh softly, shaking my head. “You’d be surprised.”
He leans back and smirks.
“Your turn,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “Spill it.”
He chuckles, but his gaze stays serious. “Fair enough,” he says, pushing back his chair. “But if you’re going to hear my story, you’re going to need more coffee.”
He stands and grabs the French press, and I watch him for a moment, my chest tight with something I can’t quite name. It’s not fear, not anymore. Either way, I’m at the point where every little move he makes turns me on.
Samuel fills our mugs, then sits, leaning back in his chair, his coffee cup cradled loosely in his hands. His eyes glance down before looking at me.
“You know, I actually don’t think I’m done with you yet.”
I bristle slightly. Pushing back would be easy—hell, it’s my default—but something in his gaze makes me pause. “Meaning?”
He offers a small grin. “Learning about you. Something tells me you didn’t come to Denver to work in bars for the rest of your life—damn good bartender though you may be. I want to know what you really want.”
I shift in my seat. No one’s asked me that question before. “Well, if I had my way, I’d like to help kids someday. Maybe work as a social worker or a counselor.”
His brows lift slightly, the first sign of surprise I’ve seen from him this morning. “That’s… unexpected,” he admits. “Why?”
“Because I know what it’s like to feel stuck, to think no one’s coming to help. If I can make it better for even one kid, maybe everything I’ve gone through, everything I’m doing now, won’t feel so pointless. It’ll feel like it was all worth it.”
The words continue to tumble out, as if I have no control over them. “When I was growing up, I had so much. I didn’t even think about it. It was just natural, like the air I breathed. When I got old enough to consider it, I figured I was just lucky. Then I learned where it all came from, what my father did to be able to provide our life of luxury.”
I clear my throat before continuing, squaring my shoulders a bit. “So, I want to give back. As corny as that might sound, I want to make the world a better place, instead of just taking up space. It’s the least I can do. It might be a silly reason, but it’s mine.”
My words hang in the air. I’ve never spoken them aloud before.
“That’s a damn good reason, if you ask me.”
His approval shouldn’t matter but it does, and the realization makes me uncomfortable. Time to pivot.
“What about you?” I ask. “How does an ex-Wall Street guy end up running a nightclub?”
He chuckles. “Wall Street was everything you’d expect—money, power, long hours, constant pressure. The kind of lifestyle that chews you up and spits you out if you don’t learn to play dirty.”
I tilt my head, intrigued despite myself. “Sounds thrilling.”
“It was,” he admits. “Until it wasn’t. I got tired of living for numbers on a screen, tired of the bullshit. Moved to Denver, thought I’d get away from it, but the dirty followed.”
“How’s that?”
“You remember what I said about Misha, how he wanted me to launder his cash, do illegal work for him.” I nod. “He wasn’t the only one. I don’t want to sound like an arrogant prick, but I was damn good at what I did. Problem with that is there was no shortage of men like Misha who wanted me to use my skills for their illegal bullshit.”
“How did you even meet Misha?”
“Mutual friends who are friends of mine no longer.” He takes a sip of coffee before continuing. “So I cashed out, found something real, something I could actually build, something that wasn’t just moving money around and watching lines go up.”
“So you chose a nightclub?” I press, sensing there’s more to the story.
He shrugs. “It felt right. I get to work with my hands, look people in the eye, build real relationships. And it keeps me busy.”
It’s an unsatisfying answer, leaving more questions than it resolves, but before I can push further, the doorbell rings, jarring and unexpected.
Samuel frowns, setting his cup down with deliberate care. “Who the hell is that?”
“Isn’t this place private?”
He nods. “It is. Few people know where to find this place. And those who do know they’d better call before just showing up.”
My chest tightens, the sound triggering a jolt of irrational panic. My mind races. Is it Misha? Did he send someone to drag me back into his world? I feel stupid for even thinking it, but the fear is so real that my stomach ties into knots.
“Maybe we shouldn’t answer it,” I blurt, my voice sounding more fearful than I intended.
Samuel takes my hand. “Nothing is going to happen to you while you’re with me.”
I nod, still not sure what to think. I watch as he slips his phone out of his pocket, opening the ring app and pulling up a camera feed.
“You’ve gotta be freaking kidding me.”
“Who is it?”
“My in-laws.”
