Think Outside the Boss - Olivia Hayle Page 0,35

said I’m afraid of dating. Somehow he’d found my weak spot and applied pressure to it, like he knew the ins and outs of me just by looking. It’s the one realm of my life I’ve never managed to feel confident in. Where effort doesn’t correlate to success, where I can’t study my way to an A or work long hours to get a good performance review.

My fingers tighten around the invitation still in my hand. Perhaps I’m done being afraid.

Time to undo those laces.

When Saturday rolls around, I’ve repeated the same I’m-going-to-a-secret-elite-sex-club shower I did last time. Shaved. Scrubbed. Contemplated my life decisions. Blow-dried my hair.

The dress I’m wearing isn’t remotely as revealing as last time… but it is tighter. It clings to my skin like a second one, deep red in color. It’s a dress I’d bought with friends in Philadelphia, the kind your girlfriends say you have to get this! but you have absolutely no business wearing to work or bars.

Turns out I have just the occasion for it now.

I arrive at the Winter Hotel just as it begins to snow. The flakes fall gently from the dark sky, whirling to the sidewalk like heaven-sent crystals. I pause outside to catch a few in my gloved hand. I’ve always loved the snow. Has to be a good sign.

The elevator to the thirteenth floor is smooth and uninterrupted. I keep my eyes trailed on the monitor for each passing floor. I’ve learned how to conquer elevators. Philadelphia taught me how, but it’s still a small mental hurdle every time, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I step out.

“Welcome,” a smartly dressed woman in a suit says. She’s not wearing anything beneath her blazer, the open V neatly covering her breasts.

“Thank you,” I say, extending my invitation. She smiles as she looks it over.

“Welcome, Frederica. Do you have your mask with you?”

I pull it out of my clutch. “I do.”

“Then you’re good to go. Enjoy yourself.” She pulls back a draped curtain and I step into the Winter’s grand ballroom and enter a world of decadence.

I hand my phone to the attendant, barely looking at him as I receive my numbers. Because there’s a giant catwalk in the middle of the ballroom, and walking on it are women draped in silk and pearls… and nothing else. Guests mingle around the catwalk, applauding, whistling. As I watch, a guest is pulled up by a performer, and she joins them without breaking stride, pulling off her dress as she walks down the runway.

The same thick, pulsing beat resonates from the speakers, and my nostrils fill with the scent of incense.

“Champagne?”

“Yes, thank you,” I murmur, accepting a flute from a waiter’s tray. In a daze, I move through the party in search of a tall, broad-shouldered man I have no business talking to.

I don’t see him.

A woman sitting on a couch sees my roving gaze. She gives me a grin and runs her hand over her partner’s hair. His hand is moving between her legs.

“Join us, honey?”

“Thank you, but I’m here with someone.”

“Bring him too,” she purrs.

Christ. “Maybe later, thank you.”

She smiles. “Enjoy yourself, then. Let loose.”

Right. I nod at her and move on, weaving around draped compartments in search of the bar. A few people sit on the stools, but it’s mostly empty.

Tristan’s not here either.

Had he already disappeared into one of the private rooms? The party has barely begun.

I sit down by the bar and cross my legs, intimately aware of how the red fabric slides up. My gaze skims over people walking in various stages of undress, women in lingerie mixed with men in suits. An attendant in the corner in a silken loincloth gives me a cursory glance, and I smile. Security, just like Tristan had pointed out.

If only he was here.

Half an hour later, I motion the waiter for another glass of champagne. I repeat the motion forty minutes later.

Still no Tristan. And with no phone, there’s nothing to do but watch the increasingly lascivious performance on stage. In a way, I can only applaud them, because there’s no way I could do what they do. Being pleasured while suspended naked from the ceiling in silk, with dozens and dozens of people watching… Nope.

But no Tristan.

The shirtless bartender pushes a drink across the bar to me. He rests on his arms, giving me a grin. “Your first time here?”

I must look pathetic. “My second, actually.”

There’s a kind look in his eyes. “I see. You’re hoping