Page 24 of Mr. Wilde

I mean, what normal girl allows herself to dream that big?

“Earth to Cassidy.” Lala bumps her hip into mine as we straighten the cocktail tables along the second-floor observation deck. I almost drop the stack of new cocktail tent cards in my hand.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “Guess I was distracted.”

She smirks. “You don’t say.”

We’re supposed to be resetting the lounge for the evening crowd, lining up menus, wiping down glass tables, fluffing pillows that already look like they’ve never been touched. From up here, the club looks calm. Like a luxury hotel instead of what it really is. An exclusive playground for the richest men and women on the planet.

Lala places the last menu card and leans on the railing, peering down at the main floor. “So. You gonna tell me, or should I just keep making up my own version?”

I freeze. “Tell you what?”

She turns slowly, eyes glittering. “About how you accidentally fell into the arms of one of the most powerful men in this building.”

I groan. “Ask your boss. I wouldn’t have been there had he not pulled me onto the dance floor. I still don’t understand how it happened,” I admit. “One minute I’m running an errand for Gianni. Next thing I know, I’m dancing with… him. Besides, it was one dance.”

“One dance with Max Wilde,” she emphasizes his name. “Self-made billionaire. Cybersecurity genius. Not the same as dancing with Fern’s balding, self-absorbed investment banker.”

Below us, Fern is already laughing too loudly at something an older man in a navy suit says, her hand resting just a little too long on his chest. Candice is perched on a barstool beside her, tits out, legs crossed as if she’s auditioning for a local plastic surgery commercial.

“They’re on the hunt early tonight,” Lala mutters. Her eyes narrow.

Candice and Fern have turned landing a rich husband into a competitive sport. Despite the lectures from Lala on avoiding crossing the line with the members, they move full steam ahead whenever they think no one’s watching.

Me? I’m just trying to keep my job and my room.

“So,” Lala presses, nudging me again. “What’s Max like up close?”

I hesitate. The honest answer feels too dangerous to share with Lala, so I settle on something benign. “He was… nice.” Well, at least that’s safer than delicious, smooth, dreamy, charismatic, panty-melting…

Lala snorts. “That’s not an answer. Nice is the hot barista at the cafe on the corner when he forgets your name but remembers your drink order.”

I rearrange the last table to give my hands something to do. I shrug, admitting nothing. Yet deep down, I enjoyed every second in his arms. And not because he was a rich, handsome, powerful man. It was the way Max made me feel when he looked down at me. Like he actually saw me.

But I’m probably kidding myself.

There’s a beat of silence before Lala smiles softly. “That’s how they get you.”

I frown. “Get you how?”

“Being nice.” She shrugs. “It’s insidious. They throw little glances your way, looks that make you feel special. Yet all the while they remain aloof, uninterested.” Lala’s expression appears pained. Is she speaking from personal experience? “You have to remember that the men here don’t end up in a place like this by accident. They’ve either got a wife or a secret girlfriend, a sex addiction… or an emotional void.”

I glance toward her, knowing she’s probably right. This place is more than a safe haven for rich playboys. These men likely have issues as complicated as mine if they choose to spend their free time here instead of in a healthy relationship. Preferring to chase their demons with high-dollar scotch, cigars, and consensual no-strings sexcapades.

Lala studies me momentarily before placing another cocktail menu in an acrylic frame. “Or maybe he just doesn’t like being alone.”

My body stiffens. Her words hit a little too close to home. I wipe down a smudge on the shiny black high-top table overlooking the first floor. “He does seem to be a bit of an enigma.”

“What do you mean?”

“He seems to be working here a lot. Sitting all by himself with a laptop. At a sex club,” I mutter. “I mean, wouldn’t it make more sense for him to be at his office? I get that he probably can’t do his line of work at the corner café. But his headquarters has to have a top-notch firewall in place. Even his home must be secure, given his line of work. So why keep coming back to DPG?” My gaze travels up the stairwell leading to the private floors. “Unless he’s interested in a specific woman here.”

“Like who? Brier?”

I again shrug, trying to remain nonchalant, but secretly wondering if he returns to spend time with someone who takes care of his needs.

Lala raises a brow. “Please. I’ve never seen him give her a second glance.”