The Playboy’s Dangerous Bet

LIV My boyfriend, Ben, is going to propose to me any day now. We’ve been together for two years. Before him, my dating history was a blank page, no flings, no messy exes, nothing. He’s my first real boyfriend, my safe harbor, and the man I’m supposed to marry. Lately, he’s been dropping not-so-subtle hints about our future, acting secretive with his phone, and whispering behind my back with my best friend, Gia, whenever I leave the room. So, I’m waiting. Every time he suggests dinner or texts me out of the blue, my heart does a little flip, wondering if tonight is the night he drops to one knee. Honestly, that is the only reason I’m in a good enough mood to cover my sister’s bakery and coffee shop, Sweet Crumb, by myself today after her lead barista caught the flu. I do not do customer service, and I definitely do not do people before noon. Which is why I’m seconds away from kicking Gia out of the shop after she showed up an hour ago strictly to eat free pastries and judge my life choices. "I’m just saying," Gia says around a mouthful of blueberry scone, "two years is a long time to wait for a piece of jewelry, Liv." My best friend sits on the opposite side of the counter in a leather miniskirt and a black mesh top. Her ink-black hair, cut with icy-silver streaks, is clipped back in a messy claw clip, and her winged eyeliner is sharp enough to draw blood. Her cleavage is on full, unapologetic display. She kicks her heel against the metal stool, ignoring the older couple glaring at her from the corner table. Let them stare. "Ben isn't making me wait," I say, wiping down the espresso machine and tossing the damp rag into the sink. "We’ve been together two years, Gia, not two decades. Besides, I caught browser tabs for engagement rings open on his laptop last week. He’s just waiting for the right moment to ask." Gia raises a pierced eyebrow, tapping a black-painted fingernail against her iced coffee. "Right. Because buying a diamond takes months of top-secret planning." "He likes to be thorough." "He’s too good to be true, is what he is." She leans over the counter. "Look, I’m just going to say it. You’re twenty-nine and still a virgin, Liv. Let's be real, if a guy dated me for two years without trying to get me into bed, I’d assume he was f*****g someone else." "Gia!" I hiss, my cheeks heating up. At the corner table, the older woman snaps her head toward us, her lips pursed in horror. I offer an apologetic grimace before glaring back at my best friend. "He respects my choices," I mutter. "It's called having boundaries, Gia. You should Google the concept sometime." She smirks. "It’s just ironic. You’re practically a nun in real life, but somehow you write the most unhinged, erotic horror books in the country under a pen name." I roll my eyes, tossing a sugar packet at her head. She catches it without flinching. "It's called fiction," I say. "Spare me your horniness and go to a club. Get laid. Bother someone else." "I would love to get laid," Gia sighs, dramatically draping herself over the counter. She tilts her head, looking past my shoulder toward the back corner of the shop. "In fact, I would happily let the guy in the corner booth ruin my life." I grab a clean towel and turn around, pretending to check the pastry display so I can follow her line of sight. My eyes land on the corner booth and my stomach immediately drops. There is a man sitting alone at the two-top near the window. He doesn't belong in a pastel-painted coffee shop. Honestly, he doesn't look like he belongs anywhere with daylight. He looks like a guy who burns things for a living. He is dressed in a dark leather jacket over a black shirt, his long legs stretched out under the small table. Most people fidget when they sit alone. They scroll on their phones or tap their feet. He is doing none of that. He sits completely still, hands resting on the tabletop. His knuckles are bruised, the skin lightly scarred. His coffee cup sits untouched. And he is staring directly at our section of the counter. "Tell me you don't feel that," Gia whispers, leaning closer to me. "The man is undressing you with his retinas." "Undressing me? Please. He's staring at your mesh top, Gia," I say dryly, organizing a stack of napkins. "Which is exactly what you wanted when you put it on." "Wanna bet?" Gia smirks, sliding off her stool. She takes three dramatic steps to the right, leaning against the pastry case. "Check again." I frown, grabbing the espresso tamper and stepping down the counter to restock the lids. I tell myself I'm not going to look. I look anyway. His head hasn't moved an inch, but his gaze tracked me right across the counter. A weird, cold prickle runs down the back of my neck. He rests his elbow on the table, bringing his hand up to his face. Slowly, deliberately, he drags his thumb across his bottom lip. His dark, piercing blue eyes lock dead onto mine. I freeze. It’s a quiet, unhurried gesture. Way too intimate for a public room. Why is he looking at me? Gia is half-naked, and I am wearing an apron covered in mocha syrup. His bone structure looks carved with a scalpel. Hard, hollowed out, and unforgiving. He looks like one of the monsters I only allow to exist between the pages of my manuscripts. The kind of man who views every interaction as a game he’s already won. "He's creeping me out," I mutter, spinning around so my back is to him. My phone buzzes in my apron pocket. I pull it out, practically lunging for the distraction. Ben: Hey beautiful. I grabbed Thai food. Extra peanut sauce for my girl. On my way to the coffee shop now. See you in ten. Love you. My shoulders drop an inch. Thank God. Normalcy. My sweet, predictable, soon-to-be fiancé. Me: You’re a lifesaver. I left my car today! Come to the back delivery door when you get here. I slip the phone back into my apron and look up at Gia, lowering my voice. "Hey," I say gently, grabbing a dry cloth. "I wanted to give you a heads-up before the weekend. Julian is coming back to town." Gia stops crunching her ice. Her hand hovers over the counter before she sets the plastic cup down, aligning it perfectly with the edge of the pastry case. She doesn't look at me, but her jaw ticks. She always aligns things when she’s trying to keep her world from spinning off its axis. "Cool," Gia says flatly, tracing the rim of her cup. "Good for him." "I just wanted you to know so you aren't caught off guard if my brother shows up." "I don't care what he does," she snaps, grabbing her purse as her silver bracelets clank against the stone. "Anyway. Nature calls. If your stalker comes over here, tell him my number is on the napkin." She turns and speed-walks toward the restroom hallway. I let out a slow breath. Right then, the scrape of a chair pushing back echoes across the quiet café. Every muscle in my back locks up. I don't need to turn around. The entire atmospheric pressure of the room just shifted. Please just walk out the door. He doesn’t. A shadow falls over the counter. The scent of dark sandalwood and cold night air hits me first. Slowly, reluctantly, I look up. Up close, the intensity of his stare is suffocating. He’s tall enough that I have to tilt my head back just to meet his eyes. There’s a small, pale scar near his jawline, drawing my gaze to the ruthless cut of his cheekbones and the faint shadow of dark stubble clinging to his skin. "Can I... help you?" I ask, my voice coming out painfully thin. He doesn't smile. He doesn't introduce himself. He just reaches into his leather coat, pulls out a black metal credit card, and slides it across the counter toward me. My eyes drop to his hand. Long fingers. Scarred knuckles. A silver ring. "For the coffee," he says. His voice is a low, rough gravel that scrapes straight down my spine. I swallow hard, run the card through the terminal, and hand it back to him along with the printed receipt. He takes the card. He ignores the receipt. Without breaking eye contact, he slides a folded white café napkin across the marble until it brushes my fingertips. Then he turns and walks out the glass front doors. I stand there frozen for five full seconds, my heart hammering against my ribs. Gia strolls back out from the hallway. "Did he leave? Tell me you got his—" She stops dead when she sees my face. "Liv? You okay?" My hands tremble as I pick up the folded paper napkin and flip it open. There is one sentence written in sharp, s***h-like black ink: Ask Ben about Roxy. Or come to Velvet Tears at 10 PM and I’ll tell you. Before I can even draw a breath, Gia snatches the napkin right out of my fingers. She reads it once. Then she reads it again. "I f*****g knew it," Gia breathes, her eyes gleaming with dark vindication. "I knew that golden-boy, Mr. Rogers routine was too good to be true. He’s f*****g around." "He's not," I snap, snatching the napkin back and shoving it deep into my apron pocket as I march over to flip the front door sign to CLOSED and throw the deadbolt. "Think about it logically, Gia. Ben is a sweet guy who runs an indie publishing house. He doesn't have a secret life. You know who does play dirty? Apex Publishing." My writer’s brain moves a million miles a minute, latching onto the only theory that doesn't end with my heart in a blender. "My contract with Apex is up in three months," I rush out, untying my apron behind the counter. "Davis in Acquisitions has been breathing down my neck since I turned him down at the Christmas party, and they know I’m planning to jump ship to Ben’s company. They probably hired some intimidating actor to drop this note and mess with my head!" Gia steps right into my path, tapping my pocket where the napkin is hidden. "Liv, your crusty sixty-year-old publishers did not hire a guy to invite you to Velvet Tears," Gia says slowly, pronouncing every syllable. "It’s not some random bar, babe. It’s an underground casino and strip club exclusively for the top one percent. There are no signs, no windows, and the bouncers wear bespoke suits and carry actual firearms. You don't walk in off the street. You have to be invited by the owner." I swallow hard, the memory of scarred knuckles and a black metal card flashing through my mind. "Which is why I am definitely not going. It’s a trap." "If Ben is really innocent, you have nothing to lose by going at ten and proving that hot psycho wrong!" Knock. Knock. Knock. Three cheerful raps hit the steel back delivery door in the kitchen hallway. I flinch, then let out a sharp exhale of relief and hurry back to throw the deadbolt open. Ben steps into the back room, bringing a rush of crisp evening air and the heavenly scent of pad thai and peanut sauce with him. In his navy coat, with his light brown hair neatly swept back and his warm hazel eyes crinkling at the corners, he looks like the definition of safe. He smiles, dropping a warm kiss onto my forehead. "Hey, beautiful. Ready to go?" "More than ready," I breathe, shooting a triumphant look over his shoulder at Gia. See? My future husband. Ben notices Gia standing by the doorway in her mesh top and lace bralette and lets out a good-natured laugh. "Jesus Christ, Gia, cover up, will you? There are health inspectors in this city." Gia flashes him a razor-sharp smile. "As long as you've only got eyes on your girl, Benny, it shouldn't matter what I'm wearing. Right?" Ben chuckles, completely unfazed, and laces his warm fingers through mine to lead me out into the quiet alleyway where his sedan is parked. As the cool night air hits my face, I finally let my shoulders drop. Gia is paranoid. The guy in the corner booth was just a lunatic trying to rattle me. Ben clicks his key fob and pulls the passenger door open for me. "Oh, hold on," Ben murmurs, stopping right beside the open door. He reaches inside his navy coat pocket. My breath catches in my throat. Wait. Is he doing it right now? Is he proposing in an alleyway with a bag of Thai food? Instead, a bright white light illuminates the fabric of his coat, followed by a soft ringtone. He pulls his phone out. I’m standing right next to him, my hand resting on the top of the open car door. For a fraction of a second, as Ben glances down at the screen, his warm, easy smile vanishes. His jaw locks. His thumb hovers over the glass, and he hits the red Decline button. "Just a spam risk," Ben says smoothly, his picture-perfect smile sliding right back into place as he slips the phone into his pocket. "Get in, babe. It's freezing." He turns and walks around the hood toward the driver's side. I don't move. I stay frozen beside the open passenger door, my heart stopping dead in my chest. Because I saw the screen. It wasn't a spam risk. In bright, glaring white letters across the caller ID, it read: ROXY.