Page 25 of Mr. Wilde

“Or one of the girls upstairs.”

She purses her lips. “I haven’t seen him with anyone here, now that I think about it. But I guess it’s possible. Or he could go to The Rox.”

I straighten and turn to look at her. “The Rox?”

“It’s basically a modern-day brothel. An elite establishment in Roxbury, Maryland where men can have their needs met by the woman of their choosing in a private setting. It’s one of Gianni’s ultra-private locations made available to VIP members looking for discreet interactions with women, men, or both.”

My brows jump to my hairline. It’s still mind-blowing to consider places like this exist. I shouldn’t be shocked, given the hedonistic world we live in. Yet when your needs are very basic, a safe place to work and live, it’s hard to relate to this extremist lifestyle.

We gather the last of the supplies and head downstairs, silver trays balanced on our palms. The bass is lower tonight, the lighting a little brighter. Less spectacle. But then again, it’s early.

And that was some party. I was tempted to beg Lala to let me sneak upstairs to see The Devil’s Playground in all its glory. Packed wall to wall with people, I might’ve been able to take it in without drawing any attention to myself. But as the thought began to take root, Gianni came along and pulled me onto the dance floor.

As we descend the steps, my eyes land on the VIP section. Max sits, focused entirely on the screen in front of him. All dark hair, glasses, and delectable stubble. My feet tangle beneath me and I nearly tumble down face first.

Why does he have to be so freaking hot? I could’ve ended up back in the hospital from his pheromones alone.

Max on the other hand… the world could be ending, and he wouldn’t notice. He’s seated at the edge of the long table, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Again, working. Here. I can’t help it. I still think it’s strange.

The glow of the screen reflects faintly in his glasses, but my mouth waters at the arm porn on display. The veins seem to dance as his muscular forearms flex with each strike against the keys of his laptop. Jeez. I can practically smell his mouthwatering cologne from the other night.

“Speak of the devil,” Lala murmurs. She takes a scotch from a passing server and places it on my tray. “I need to go to the office and check for any new messages. Take him a drink.”

“But I⁠—”

“Go. It’s our job to anticipate their needs.”

Before I can protest, she nudges me forward.

I walk toward him, suddenly hyper-aware of everything I’m wearing. No slinky gown tonight. Just a lavender dress that hugs my hips and silver heels I can actually walk in. I almost feel underdressed.

As I reach the table, he doesn’t even look up. My hands are shaking as I set the glass down beside his laptop, careful not to disturb him. For one second, I consider just walking away. Letting the moment pass. Letting this man remain a fantasy instead of the larger-than-life CEO I danced with once.

But something inside me rebels.

Maybe I’ll just reassure him I’m nearby if he needs anything. I lean in slightly, close enough that he can hear me without the room hearing too. “Hi.”

Max startles, hands pausing mid-type. His eyes snap up to meet mine. My breath is trapped in my throat. And for half a second, we just stare at each other. “Hi,” he says softly. Like the word surprised him.

My heart does something reckless. I straighten, trying to look casual while every nerve in my body is screaming.

Neither of us moves.

Max

I tell myself I come here to work. That the ambient noise helps me concentrate. The low music, the muted conversations, the constant motion in my peripheral vision are enough stimulation to keep my mind from spiraling into places it shouldn’t go. And while that may be true, my reason for being here right now isn’t work-related.

I came here today because I wanted to see her.

I haven’t figured out her schedule yet. It’s not like I can ask Gianni without raising questions I’m not prepared to answer. And the last thing I need is for my current distraction to become public knowledge.

Still, I catch myself scanning every doorway. Constantly alert for signs of pink hair, blue eyes, and fair skin. I’ve become trained on that quiet, cautious way she moves, as if the world is something that might attack if she lets her guard down.

Cassidy.

Of all the women in the world, why her? This mysterious woman who reminds me of cotton candy on legs. I’ve spent time with models, actresses, and heiresses. All of the interactions superficial. Work events that required a plus one, or a rare night of gratuitous enjoyment with someone who was equally disinterested in romantic entanglements. But none of them has ever stayed with me the way she does.

None have ever made me feel so off-kilter.