King of Pride (Kings of Sin #2) by Ana Huang

Maybe it was the shock of seeing him off schedule, or maybe I was trying to pay Kai back for all the times he could’ve gotten me fired for inappropriate behavior (a.k.a. talking about sex at work) but didn’t. Whatever it was, it compelled me to walk another drink over to him during a lull.

The timing was perfect; his latest conversation partner had just left, leaving Kai alone again at the bar.

“A strawberry gin and tonic. On me.” I slid the glass across the counter. I’d made it on a whim, thinking it’d be a funny way to lift his mood even if it was at my expense. “You look like you could use the pick-me-up.”

He responded with a questioning arch of his brow.

“You’re off schedule,” I explained. “You’d never go off schedule unless something’s wrong.”

The arch smoothed, replaced with a tiny crinkle at the corners of his eyes. My heartbeat faltered at the unexpectedly endearing sight.

It’s just a smile. Get it together.

“I wasn’t aware you paid so much attention to my schedule.” Flecks of laughter glimmered beneath Kai’s voice.

Heat flooded my cheeks for the second time that night. This is what I get for being a Good Samaritan.

“I don’t make a point of it,” I said defensively. “You’ve been coming to the bar every week since I started working here, but you’ve never showed up on a Monday. I’m simply observant.” I should’ve stopped there, but my mouth ran off before my brain could catch up. “Rest assured, you’re not my type, so you don’t have to worry about me hitting on you.”

That much was true. Objectively, I recognized Kai’s appeal, but I liked my men rougher around the edges. He was as straitlaced as they came. Even if he wasn’t, fraternization between club members and employees was strictly forbidden, and I had no desire to upend my life over a man again, thank you very much.

That didn’t stop my traitorous hormones from sighing every time they saw him. It was annoying as hell.

“Good to know.” The flecks of laughter shone brighter as he brought the glass to his lips. “Thank you. I have a soft spot for strawberry gin and tonics.”

This time, my heartbeat didn’t so much falter as stop altogether, if only for a split second.

Soft spot? What does that mean?

It means nothing, a voice grumbled in the back of my head. He’s talking about the drink, not you. Besides, he’s not your type. Remember?

Oh, shut up, Debbie Downer.

Great. Now my inner voices were arguing with each other. I didn’t even know I had more than one inner voice. If that wasn’t a sign I needed sleep and not another night agonizing over my manuscript, nothing was.

“You’re welcome,” I said, a tad belatedly. My pulse drummed in my ears. “Well, I should—”

“Sorry I’m late.” A tall, blond man swept into the seat next to Kai’s, his voice as brisk as the late September chill clinging to his coat. “My meeting ran over.”

He spared me a brief glance before turning back to Kai.

Dark gold hair, navy eyes, the bone structure of a Calvin Klein model, and the warmth of the iceberg from Titanic. Dominic Davenport, the reigning king of Wall Street.

I recognized him on sight. It was hard to forget that face, even if his social skills could use improvement.

Relief and an annoying niggle of disappointment swept through me at the interruption, but I didn’t wait for Kai’s response. I booked it to the other side of the bar, hating the way his soft spot comment lingered like it was anything but a throwaway remark.

If he wasn’t my type, I definitely wasn’t his. He dated the kind of woman who sat on charity boards, summered in the Hamptons, and matched their pearls to their Chanel suits. There was nothing wrong with any of those things, but they weren’t me.

I blamed my outsize reaction to his words on my self-imposed dry spell. I was so starved for touch and affection I’d probably get giddy off a wink from that half-naked cowboy always roaming Times Square. It had nothing to do with Kai himself.

I didn’t return to his side of the bar again for the rest of the night.

Luckily, working a half shift meant I could clock out early. At five to ten, I transferred my remaining tabs to Tessa, said my goodbyes, and grabbed my bag from the back room, all without looking at a certain billionaire with a penchant for Hemingway.

I could’ve sworn I felt the heated touch of dark eyes on my back when I left, but I didn’t turn to confirm. It was better I didn’t know.

The hall was hushed and empty this late at night. Exhaustion tugged at my eyelids, but instead of bolting for the exit and the comfort of my bed, I made a left toward the main staircase.

I should go home so I could hit my daily word count goal, but I needed inspiration first. I couldn’t concentrate with the stress of facing a blank page clouding my head.

The words used to flow freely; I wrote three-quarters of my erotic thriller in less than six months. Then I read it over, hated it, and scrapped it in favor of a fresh project. Unfortunately, the creativity that’d fueled my first draft had vanished alongside it. I was lucky if I wrote more than two hundred words a day these days.

I took the stairs to the second floor.

The club’s amenities were off-limits to employees during working hours, but while the bar was open until three in the morning, the rest of the building closed at eight. I wasn’t breaking any rules by visiting my favorite room for some decompression.