His chest rose and fell on a deep breath as I tried to get my rapid heartbeat under control. I sucked in as much air as possible, coaxing myself with a silent in through your nose, out through your mouth. It took a few seconds, but I finally started to calm down. That was, until Rowan focused those darkened eyes on me.

“This isn’t over. Goddamn, this is so not fucking over.”

“I know.” The surprise that flashed across his face told me he’d been expecting a fight. Well, I wasn’t going to give him one.

“Tonight, after this is over. Come home with me.” It wasn’t a question. He wasn’t giving me any room to change my mind.

“O-okay,” I stuttered on a nod.

A slow, brain-shorting smile spread across his lips as he spoke a quiet, “Okay.”

He held on to my hand firmly as he guided me out of the limo, letting go once I was on my feet to rest his palm at the small of my back. The touch provided a sense of comfort as we walked into the Plaza Hotel where the gala was being held.

“Whoa,” I exhaled. “Talk about lifestyles of the rich and famous,” I whispered for only Rowan’s ears.

“This place will be packed with pretentious douchebags and narcissistic bastards.”

I turned my face up toward him and gave him a quick smile. “So, what you’re saying is you’ll fit in perfectly.”

“She’s got jokes.” He grinned, giving my side a pinch that caused me to let out a small yelp. Both of us laughed at the few disapproving looks from the people around us.

“So, tell me what to expect tonight,” I said as we walked into the ornately decorated ballroom. Yep, so out of my element.

Rowan led me to the bar closest to us, one of two on either side of the room. “Well, it’s going to be boring,” he started. “Mind numbingly boring. Cocktails and a silent auction followed by a dinner, where we’ll undoubtedly be stuck in conversations so dull you’ll want to stab your eardrums out with a butter knife.” He turned to me and gave a crooked grin as I sat on one of the available barstools. “That’s frowned upon, by the way. You’ll be tempted, but I suggest you keep all cutlery away from your ears.”

“Noted,” I giggled.

“During the dinner, someone—most likely a limp-dick politician who doesn’t give a shit about the charity—will drone on about all the reasons we should open our checkbooks and ask each of us to donate an amount that would be enough to buy a private island, all while purposefully sliding in comments as to what he or she is running for and why they’re the best choice for New York’s blah blah blah. Then they’ll announce the winners of the auction items, making sure to give the exact dollar amount, down to the penny, hoping to emasculate the rest of us who weren’t willing to fork out that much. Sprinkle in a shit-ton of schmoozing in between, and there’s your night.”

“Wow, you make it sound so appealing,” I responded sarcastically.

“Well, now you know why I hate coming to these things.”

The bartender came over for our drink order, a scotch on the rocks for Rowan, a gin and tonic for myself.

“So,” I asked a few minutes later, taking a fortifying sip of my drink as I turned to scan the room, “Are you telling me you have enough money to buy your own personal island?”

Rowan rested his side against the bar next to me, his elbow propped up casually as he brought his glass to his lips. I was momentarily mesmerized by the way his lips wrapped around the edge, how his throat bobbed when he swallowed. I had to give my head a quick shake to pull me from my stupor.

“Maybe a small one,” he teased. “What? You thinking of becoming a gold digger?”

“Nah, not really my style.” I scanned the room once more, taking in all the money that was wandering around—an ideal scene for people watching, honestly. I gave Rowan a cheeky grin. “But I’m sure you’d have no problem finding one here if you’re in the market.”

It was like perfect comedic timing—only not funny whatsoever—when an elegant, French-tipped hand snaked over Rowan’s shoulder just seconds before a surgically enhanced blonde plastered herself to his side.

“Rowan,” she purred in an annoying nasally voice. From the strange look of her face, I could only assume the Botox had botched her attempt at a seductive expression. To Rowan’s credit, he at least appeared to be caught off guard, but that was more than likely because he’d forgotten the plastic woman’s name two minutes before she’d walked out his door—or he walked out of hers. None of that lessened the sharp sting I felt in the pit of my stomach as I watched the two of them.

“Uh… hi…” Yep, he totally forgot her name. His wide, icy eyes shot to me as if wanting me to step in and save him. Not a fucking chance in hell. He’d made his bed, had sex with the five-foot-nine Barbie Doll in it, he could very well lie in it.

“You don’t remember me?” she asked with what I was assuming was a pout. Hard to tell with all the collagen pumped into her lips. It took an act of God to prevent me from reaching for my phone and snapping a quick picture. I wanted to blast that baby all over Instagram as a warning to always seek a board-certified plastic surgeon.

Did she get that shit done in Tijuana or something?

When all he did was stand there like a dumbass mute, she continued. “Brandi… with an i?” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “The bathtub at the Waldorf?” Oh, gag! “You called me sweetheart?” You and every other available vagina this side of the Hudson.

“Oh, of course!” Rowan lied through his teeth. “Brandi. Yes, I remember.”

She attempted a grin that couldn’t bust through the toxins she’d pumped into her skin. “I knew you would!” I wanted to gouge my eyes out. Or better yet, stick a fork in one of the airbags she called a boob and watch her fly away. “Are you here alone? We could leave a little early if you wanted, go back to my place…” She trailed a fingernail down the lapel of his jacket, lower and lower until Rowan grabbed her wrist, stopping her just inches from being indecent.

I was pissed.

Or more aptly, I was jealous. And that itself was enough to piss me off even more. I didn’t get jealous. Ever. I’d never been jealous in my life. Yet there I sat, fuming over the biggest man-whore on the eastern seaboard. Good Lord, how had things spun so out of control?

“Um, no. I’m actually—” he began to answer.

Clearing my throat loudly, I pasted on a saccharine-sweet smile as they turned to look at me. Boobzilla scanned me up and down, clearly finding me lacking. Rowan just looked downright uncomfortable, which was really saying something, considering nothing seemed to ruffle his feathers. Seeing his immense discomfort suddenly shifted something inside of me, tapering off the decent sized mad I’d been working on. He didn’t want her pawing all over him. He’d even begun to tell her he was with someone before I interrupted. While I would have loved to throw a Texas sized hissy fit, he honestly hadn’t done anything wrong. At least at that moment. For that reason, I decided to throw him a bone.

I extended my hand in the human blowup doll’s direction. “Hi, I’m Navie.” When her expression remained impassive, I continued. “Rowan’s date.”

She let out a less than feminine snort. “You must be joking.”

“She’s not, actually,” Rowan answered, detaching himself from the she-bitch and moving to my side, snaking his hand around my waist. My heart did a little flip at his possessive gesture. My body liked that way more than it should have. “It was nice seeing you again. Enjoy your evening.”

Just like that, he turned his back on her, stepping in front of me and effectively cutting her off. But I wasn’t done.

Taking a page out of Rowan’s playbook, I looked over his shoulder, smiling big as I said, “Lovely meeting you, Barbara.”