Exposed: Her Undercover Millionaire

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“Don’t think it’s because I don’t want to,” he said. “I do, more than you could possibly imagine, but you’ve had a lot to drink. I feel like I would be taking advantage of you.”

Take advantage of me, please, she wanted to say. But he was right. She’d had a lot to drink. Way more than she ever did. Odds were good it was severely impairing her judgment.

Odds were good? Of course her judgment was impaired. She was inviting a client into her apartment with every intention of sleeping with him. A man who met not a single one of her dating requirements. Not that she’d had any intention of actually dating him. She just wanted sex.

Ugh! What was she doing?

“You’re right,” she said, backing up a step, out of his grasp, clutching the door frame for balance. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“If it’s any consolation, I was thinking the same thing.”

Somehow that only made her feel worse.

“Thank you for talking me into coming out with you tonight,” she said. “I had fun.”

“So did I.”

“I hope we can still be friends. Maybe we could do it again sometime.” Just without the kissing. And grinding. And the excessive amounts of alcohol.

“I’d like that.”

And if she stood out here much longer, if she didn’t get inside, she was bound to launch herself into his arms. And if that happened, she wouldn’t be accepting no for an answer.

Maybe he was thinking the same thing, because he said, “I should go.”

“Thanks for dinner, and the drinks and teaching me how to dance.”

“You’re welcome. Thanks for keeping me company.”

He looked like he wanted to kiss her again. He even took a step toward her, but something in her eyes must have warned him exactly what would happen if he did, because he turned, headed down the walk, his footfalls heavy against the concrete. He disappeared around the corner, and she listened until his footsteps faded—just in case he changed his mind and came back. When he didn’t, when she heard the engine of his truck start, she stepped inside and shut the door behind her.

She’d almost made a huge mistake. Crossed a line she swore she would never cross. She’d dodged a bullet when Brandon put on the brakes, so why instead did it feel as though it had pierced her heart?

Holy hell.

Brandon sat in his truck, engine running, gripping the steering wheel, trying to calm his racing heart. What the hell had just happened back there? He knew Paige had spunk, and he knew that he was getting her hot and bothered on the dance floor, but he’d never expected her to throw herself at him that way. And when she’d kissed him … Jesus. He’d never connected with a woman like that before. Physically, emotionally—it was like a freaking religious experience. And putting on the brakes, telling her no, had been torture. In the sixty seconds it had taken him to walk back to his truck, he’d almost turned back at least a dozen times.