CHAPTER ONE
The silk sheets were too soft.
That was Claire Evans' first coherent thought as consciousness crept back in, dragging her from the murky depths of sleep. Her second thought was that her head felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it.
Her third thought was: These aren't my sheets.
Claire's eyes flew open.
Sunlight poured through floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing an unfamiliar room in gold. The bed beneath her was massive—easily king-sized—with crisp white linens that probably cost more than her rent. Modern art hung on charcoal walls. A leather chair sat in the corner, an expensive suit jacket draped over its arm.
This was not her cramped apartment above the bakery.
Panic sliced through the fog in her brain. Claire sat up too quickly, and the room tilted. She pressed a hand to her forehead, willing the world to stop spinning, and that's when she noticed three things in rapid succession:
One: She was wearing only her bra and underwear.
Two: Her clothes were scattered across the plush carpet like a trail of breadcrumbs.
Three: She wasn't alone.
A man lay beside her, his back to her, dark hair tousled against the pillow. The sheet had slipped down to his waist, revealing a broad, muscled back that looked like it belonged in a cologne ad.
"Oh God," Claire whispered. "Oh God, oh God, oh God."
What had she done?
Fragments of last night crashed through her mind in disjointed flashes. The bar. Drinks with Mia and Josh. Too many drinks. Laughing too loud. Stumbling down a hotel corridor. A room key that didn't quite work—or had it? A stranger's smile. Hands on her waist. Lips on her neck.
Heat flooded her cheeks as more memories surfaced, hazy but undeniable.
She'd slept with a complete stranger.
Claire Evans, who hadn't been on a date in two years. Who spent every waking hour trying to save her mother's failing bakery. Who'd only agreed to go out last night because Mia had practically dragged her out the door.
One night, Mia had said. Just one night to forget about the bills and the stress and everything else.
Well. She'd definitely forgotten.
Moving as quietly as possible, Claire slid out of bed. Her legs were unsteady, whether from alcohol or mortification, she couldn't tell. She grabbed her dress from the floor—a simple black number she'd borrowed from Mia—and pulled it on with shaking hands.
Where was her phone? Her purse?
There—on the nightstand. Claire reached for it, but her hand knocked against something else. A watch. Expensive-looking, with a face that probably cost more than her car.
She froze as the man stirred.
Don't wake up, she prayed. Please don't wake up.
He shifted, mumbling something incoherent, then settled back into sleep.
Claire didn't breathe until she was sure he wouldn't move again. Then she snatched her purse and shoes and bolted for the door, not bothering to put them on until she was safely in the hallway.
The hotel corridor was blessedly empty. Harsh fluorescent lights made her squint as she fumbled with her shoes, hopping on one foot. Her necklace—her grandmother's necklace, the delicate silver chain she never took off—was missing.
Her heart sank. It must have come off last night. She should go back. That necklace was one of the only things she had left of her grandmother.
But the thought of facing that stranger, of seeing recognition dawn in his eyes as he realized she'd snuck out like a thief...
No. She couldn't.
She'd find another way to get it back. Maybe she could call the hotel later, ask if anyone had found it.
Claire jabbed the elevator button repeatedly, as if that would make it arrive faster. When the doors finally slid open, she practically threw herself inside.
It wasn't until she was in the lobby, hurrying past the elegant reception desk and the early morning guests, that she let herself breathe.
What floor had that even been? She couldn't remember. Everything from last night was a blur of poor decisions and tequila.
Outside, the January air bit at her skin. Claire wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly freezing in her thin dress. She didn't even have a coat. Had she brought one? She couldn't remember that either.
Her phone buzzed. Mia.
WHERE ARE YOU??? Are you okay??
I'm fine, Claire typed back, her fingers clumsy. Heading home now.
Did you leave with someone last night? You just DISAPPEARED
Claire stared at the message. Had she? She remembered Mia and Josh at the bar, but everything after that was fragmented. She'd needed air. Stepped outside. Found herself in the wrong hallway. Or had someone led her there?
God, she couldn't even remember.
Long story. Talk later.
She shoved her phone in her purse and flagged down a taxi.
The ride back to the bakery took twenty minutes. Twenty minutes for the full weight of her mistake to settle on her shoulders like lead. What had she been thinking? She didn't do things like this. She was responsible. Careful. Boring, according to Mia.
But last night, for just a few hours, she'd wanted to be someone else. Someone who didn't spend every night lying awake, calculating bills she couldn't pay. Someone who didn't watch her mother's dream crumble a little more each day.
Someone who could forget, just for a moment, that she was failing.
The taxi pulled up outside Sweet Haven Bakery. The shop was dark, not yet open for the day. Claire paid the driver and let herself in through the side entrance, climbing the narrow stairs to her apartment above.
She needed a shower. Coffee. About twelve hours of sleep.
What she got was her reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Her makeup was smudged, her hair a disaster. She looked exactly like someone who'd made a series of catastrophically bad decisions.
Claire turned on the shower as hot as it would go and stepped under the spray, letting the water wash away the scent of expensive cologne and unfamiliar sheets.
But it couldn't wash away the memory of strong hands on her skin, or the low voice that had murmured her name like a prayer.
She didn't even know his name.
The bakery didn't open itself.
By seven a.m., Claire was downstairs, her hair still damp, dressed in jeans and her mother's old apron. Her headache had dulled to a persistent throb, manageable with enough ibuprofen and coffee.
The ovens needed preheating. The display cases needed filling. The coffee maker was acting up again, making that grinding noise that meant it would probably die completely within the week.
Just another thing she couldn't afford to replace.
Claire moved through the familiar motions of opening, trying not to think about last night. Trying not to wonder who that man was, or if he'd woken up yet. If he'd noticed she was gone.
If he'd found her necklace.
The thought made her chest tighten. That necklace was the only thing her grandmother had left her. The only piece of her Claire still carried.
She'd have to call the hotel. There was no way around it.
But not yet. Not when her hands were still shaking.
The bell above the door chimed at seven-thirty. Mia burst in, still wearing last night's outfit, her blonde hair piled in a messy bun.
"Okay," she said, marching up to the counter. "Spill. Everything. Now."
Claire sighed. "There's nothing to spill."
"You disappeared for three hours and came back looking like you'd been through a tornado. That's not nothing." Mia leaned over the counter, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Did you hook up with someone?"
"Mia—"
"You did! Oh my God, you totally did. Who was it? Was he hot? Please tell me he was hot."
Claire's face burned. "I don't... I don't really remember."
That was partly true. The details were fuzzy, lost in a haze of alcohol and bad judgment. But she remembered enough. The heat of his mouth. The way his hands had mapped her body like he was memorizing it. The sound of her name on his lips.
God, how had he even known her name?
"You don't remember?" Mia's expression shifted from excited to concerned. "Claire, were you okay? Did someone—"
"No. Nothing like that." Claire grabbed a rag and started wiping down the already-clean counter, just to have something to do with her hands. "I was drunk. We were both drunk. It just... happened."
"And?"
"And I left before he woke up."
"Claire!"
"What was I supposed to do? Stick around for the awkward morning-after conversation?" Claire shook her head. "It was a mistake. A one-time thing. It's over."
Except it didn't feel over. It felt like the beginning of something she didn't understand, something that had shifted the axis of her world just slightly off-center.
Mia studied her for a long moment. "You really don't remember who he was?"
"No."
"Not even his name?"
Claire hesitated. Had he told her his name? She'd been so drunk, everything was blurred at the edges. "I don't think he did."
"Wow." Mia let out a low whistle. "That's very unlike you."
"I know."
"I kind of love it."
"Mia—"
"I'm serious! You're always so buttoned-up. It's nice to know you can let loose sometimes." Mia grinned. "Even if you don't remember it."
Claire wanted to argue, but what was the point? Mia was right. She was buttoned-up. Responsible. The girl who'd never taken a risk in her life.
Until last night.
The bell chimed again, and their first customer of the day walked in. Claire threw herself into work, grateful for the distraction. She pulled pastries from the oven, filled the display case, took orders with a smile that felt more like a grimace.
Normal. She just needed to get back to normal.
By noon, the lunch rush had died down, and Claire finally had a moment to breathe. She was restocking the coffee station when her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
She almost didn't answer. But something made her swipe to accept.
"Hello?"
"Ms. Evans?"
The voice was male, professional, unfamiliar. "Yes?"
"My name is Richard Sterling. I'm calling on behalf of my employer regarding an item you may have lost."
Claire's heart stopped. "An item?"
"A necklace. Silver chain, small pendant. Does that sound familiar?"
"Yes." The word came out breathless. "Yes, that's mine. Where—how did you—"
"My employer found it this morning and would like to return it to you personally. Would you be available to meet this afternoon?"
Meet? "I—I'm working. Can't you just mail it?"
"My employer was quite insistent on returning it in person, Ms. Evans. He's a very... thorough man."
There was something in the way he said that last part. Something that made Claire's stomach twist.
"Who is your employer?"
A pause. "Mr. Austin Blake."
The name meant nothing to her. Should it?
"I don't understand. Why would he want to meet me?"
"I believe that's something he'd prefer to discuss with you directly. Would three o'clock work? He can come to you, if that's easier."
Come here? To the bakery?
Claire glanced around at the worn linoleum, the cracked display case, the coffee maker held together with duct tape. This was not a place where someone who had a personal assistant came for meetings.
"That's... that's fine. The address is—"
"We have it. Thank you, Ms. Evans. Mr. Blake will see you at three."
The line went dead before she could respond.
Claire stared at her phone, her heart hammering.
Austin Blake.
She pulled up Google with shaking fingers and typed in his name.
The results made her blood run cold.
Austin Blake, 32, CEO of Blake Industries. Net worth: $2.3 billion.
The first image showed a man in a sharp suit, dark hair perfectly styled, blue eyes that seemed to stare right through the camera. Strong jaw. Confident smile.
Devastatingly handsome.
And very, very familiar.
"Oh no," Claire whispered
. "Oh no, no, no."
She'd slept with a billionaire.
Worse—she'd snuck out on a billionaire.
And now he was coming here.