The thing about charity galas is they're hunting grounds wrapped in silk and good intentions, places where Manhattan's finest gather to throw money at underprivileged children while wearing shoes that cost more than most people make in a month, all of it perfect for what I do. Perfect.
I adjust the neckline of my borrowed Valentino dress. Borrowed being a generous term for what happens when your friend's roommate works at a high end consignment shop and has flexible morals about security tags. The dress hugs my curves in all the right places, the deep navy blue making my blonde hair look expensive instead of bottle bought. My Spanx are cutting into my ribs something fierce, but suffering for beauty is part of the job.
The Metropolitan Museum's Great Hall buzzes with the kind of energy that only comes when people with too much money gather to feel good about themselves. I scan the crowd, cataloguing potential marks the way other women catalogue shoes. There's the pharmaceutical heir who's been divorced three times, too messy. The hedge fund prince with the wandering hands, too grabby. The oil executive who ,
And then I see him.
Griffin Ashcroft stands near the Egyptian wing entrance, rolling up his sleeves like he's uncomfortable in his own skin. Which he probably is. I did my research, spent three days learning everything Google could tell me about Griffin James Ashcroft, founder and CEO of Nexus Technologies. Net worth somewhere in the nine figure range after his company went public last year. Recently divorced, no kids, lives alone in a Tribeca penthouse that takes up an entire floor.
But here's what the internet didn't tell me. He's attractive in that rumpled professor way, all dark hair that looks like he's been running his hands through it and glasses that probably cost more than my rent. He's tall, maybe six two, with broad shoulders that fill out his tuxedo jacket in ways that make my mouth go a little dry.
More importantly, he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else. Perfect.
I grab a champagne flute from a passing waiter and make my approach. The bubbles bite sharp against my tongue as I take a sip, buying myself time to slip into character. Mysterious but approachable. Intelligent but not threatening. Available but not desperate.
"First time at one of these things?"
He turns, and Christ, his eyes are green. Not just green, but the kind of green that makes you think of deep forests and secrets whispered in the dark. I feel my practiced smile falter for half a second before I catch myself.
"That obvious?" He pushes his glasses up his nose, a gesture that shouldn't be endearing but somehow is. "I keep expecting someone to ask me to fix their WiFi."
I laugh, and it's not entirely calculated. "Well, you are dressed like you know your way around a server room."
"Guilty as charged." He extends his hand. "Griffin Ashcroft."
"Kendra Vale." His palm is warm when it closes around mine, softer than I expected for a tech mogul. No calluses, just clean, well maintained hands that probably spend more time typing than doing manual labour.
"What gave me away?" he asks, and there's something self deprecating in his tone that catches me off guard. "The fact that I'm hiding by the mummies, or that I keep checking my phone for stock prices?"
"The sleeve rolling," I say without thinking, then catch myself. Too honest. "Also, you look like you're planning an escape route."
"I am." He grins, and it transforms his whole face. "Want to help me plot one?"
Standard question. Here comes my standard bullshit deflection. I should flutter my lashes, make some comment about how a handsome man like him must have women lining up to rescue him. Should ask about his work, his success, his undoubtedly fascinating rise to the top.
Instead, I find myself saying, "Depends. Are we talking a simple Irish goodbye, or full scale rappelling down the side of the building?"
"I was thinking more along the lines of strategic repositioning to the bar." He offers his elbow. "Care to join me on this dangerous mission?"
The bar is less crowded, tucked away in a corner where the lighting is dim and the conversations are quieter. Griffin orders a whisky neat, and I stick with champagne. We find a small table away from the main flow of traffic, and I settle into my chair, hyperaware of the way my dress rides up slightly.
He doesn't look. Doesn't even glance down. His eyes stay fixed on my face like I'm the most interesting thing in the room.
"So, Kendra Vale," he says, leaning back in his chair. "What's your story?"
Another standard question. This one usually leads to me spinning some tale about art history degrees and gallery work, something cultured and vaguely creative that explains why I'm here but not threatening enough to intimidate. But there's something about the way he asks, like he actually wants to know, that throws me.
"That's a dangerous question to ask a woman at a charity gala."
"How so?"
"We're all running from something. Otherwise we'd be home watching Netflix like normal people."
He laughs, and the sound does something funny to my chest. "Fair point. What are you running from?"
I take a sip of champagne, stalling. "Reality. Student loans. The fact that I spent forty five minutes trying to get my hair to look effortless."
"Well, you succeeded. It looks great."
The compliment hits different than they usually do. Less calculated, more genuine. I find myself tucking a strand behind my ear, a nervous gesture I haven't used in years.
"What about you?" I ask. "What's Griffin Ashcroft running from?"
"Networking." He makes a face. "Do you know how many people have asked me about acquisition opportunities tonight? I've been here an hour and I already have three business cards and an invitation to a weekend in the Hamptons."
"Poor baby," I tease. "Must be hard being successful and in demand."
"You'd be surprised." He rolls his sleeves again, and I'm starting to recognise it as his tell. "Sometimes I miss the days when the biggest decision I had to make was which energy drink to mainline at three in the morning."
There's something wistful in his voice that makes me forget, for just a second, why I'm here. "You miss the struggle?"
"I miss the simplicity." He meets my eyes. "What about you? What did you want to be when you grew up?"
My practiced smile wavers. Nobody ever asks me that. They ask what I do, where I'm from, if I'm single. They don't ask about childhood dreams.
"I wanted to be a librarian," I hear myself say, and immediately want to take it back. That's not part of the script. That's real.
"A librarian?" His whole face lights up. "That's brilliant. All those books, all that knowledge at your fingertips."
"Seemed romantic at the time." I try to laugh it off, but he's not letting me deflect.
"What changed your mind?"
"Life." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "Reality has a way of crushing romantic notions."
"Does it have to?" There's something earnest in his expression that makes my stomach clench. "I mean, it's not too late to go back to school, get your library science degree..."
Christ, he thinks I can just waltz back into academia like it's that simple. Like I have the luxury of student loans and career changes and following my dreams. I want to laugh at the naivety of it, but there's something so genuinely hopeful in his voice that I can't bring myself to crush it.
"Maybe," I say instead, which is a lie wrapped in a maybe.
The conversation shifts to books, and before I know it, I'm talking about Virginia Woolf and Baldwin with an enthusiasm I haven't felt in years. Griffin listens like I'm revealing state secrets, nodding and asking follow up questions that prove he's actually paying attention.
Twenty minutes in, I realise I haven't checked his watch, haven't mentally calculated his net worth, haven't even properly assessed the room for backup targets. A cold thread of dread winds through my chest.
This is not how this is supposed to go.
"You know," Griffin says, interrupting my mental spiral, "you're not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Someone... less interesting." He studies my face. "Most people at these things, they ask about my company within the first five minutes. You haven't mentioned it once."
Because I already know everything about your company, I think but don't say. Because I researched your divorce settlement and your quarterly earnings and the fact that your mother's maiden name is Stewart.
"Should I be impressed?" I ask instead.
"Only if you want to be bored to tears by talk of user acquisition and market penetration."
I nearly choke on my champagne at the unintentional double entendre, and Griffin's cheeks go red when he realises what he's said.
"That came out wrong," he mutters, pushing his glasses up again.
"Did it?" I lean forward slightly, letting my voice drop to something that might be considered flirtatious. This, at least, I know how to do. "Tell me about market penetration, Griffin."
But instead of taking the bait like most men would, he just looks flustered. "I meant... the business term. Market share. Revenue streams."
"I know what you meant." I'm smiling now, genuinely amused by his discomfort. "You're kind of adorable when you're embarrassed."
"I don't get called adorable very often."
"What do you get called?"
"Intense. Obsessive. Workaholic." He ticks the words off on his fingers. "My ex wife had a few more colourful terms, but we don't need to get into those."
The mention of his ex wife should be my opening. I should ask sympathetic questions about the divorce, let him unload his emotional baggage while I play the understanding woman who would never treat him that way. But something about the way his face shutters when he mentions her makes me want to change the subject.
"She sounds delightful," I say dryly.
"She wasn't wrong, though. I am obsessive. When I find something interesting, I tend to fixate." His eyes find mine across the table. "It's probably not healthy."
There's something in his gaze that makes my pulse kick up a notch. Something that suggests his interest might be fixating on me.
"Depends what you're fixating on," I manage.
"Right now?" He leans forward, close enough that I can smell his cologne, something clean and expensive that probably costs more than my monthly grocery budget. "Right now I'm trying to figure out why someone as smart as you is pretending to be someone she's not."
My blood goes cold. "Excuse me?"
"The dress," he says quietly. "It's beautiful, but it's not yours. The tag's still tucked inside the neckline. And your accent slips sometimes, goes from Manhattan socialite to something more... Brooklyn?"
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
I force myself to laugh, to look amused instead of terrified. "You're very observant for a tech guy."
"Occupational hazard. I debug systems for a living." He takes a sip of his whisky, watching me over the rim of his glass. "The question is, what are you debugging tonight?"
"Maybe I'm just a woman who likes nice dresses and networking events."
"Maybe." He doesn't sound convinced. "Or maybe you're running a con, and I'm tonight's target."
The words hang between us like a bomb waiting to go off. I should deny it, should look shocked and hurt that he'd suggest such a thing. Should storm off in righteous indignation and find another mark.
Instead, I find myself studying his face, looking for anger or disgust or the particular brand of masculine rage that comes when men realise they're being played. But there's none of that. Just curiosity and something that might be amusement.
"And if I were?" I ask carefully.
"Then I'd be impressed by your research. And disappointed that you felt the need to perform for me."
His hand moves across the table, fingers stopping just short of mine. "I'd like to know what you really think about the art auction they're running. Not the polished version. The real one."
My throat feels tight. "You want the real version?"
"I want the real you, Kendra. However much of her you're willing to share."
There's something in his voice, something warm and genuine and completely different from every other mark I've ever worked, that makes my chest ache in ways I don't understand. This isn't how it's supposed to go. He's supposed to be easy, predictable, susceptible to the same tricks that have worked on dozens of men before him.
He's not supposed to see through me. And he's definitely not supposed to ask for more.
"The art auction is a joke," I hear myself saying. "Half the pieces are overpriced garbage that wouldn't sell for a tenth of the estimate at any real auction house. But nobody cares because it's not about the art. It's about being seen spending money on charity."
Griffin grins like I've just given him a gift. "See? That's what I wanted to hear."
"You're weird," I tell him, and I mean it.
"So are you." He finally closes the distance, his fingers brushing against mine. "Want to get out of here?"
This is it. This is the moment I've been working toward all evening. The invitation back to his place, where I can cement my position and start the longer game. I should say yes immediately, should flutter my lashes and suggest we go somewhere more private.
But something about the way he's looking at me, like I'm a puzzle he wants to solve instead of a body he wants to use, makes the words stick in my throat.
"Actually," Griffin says before I can answer, "forget that. That sounded like a line, and I don't want to be another guy with a line."
He pulls his hand back, and I immediately miss the warmth of his touch.
"Let me start over." He pushes his glasses up, nervous again. "I know this great diner in the Village that serves breakfast all night. Amazing pancakes. Terrible coffee. Would you like to have breakfast with me tomorrow morning and tell me more about your thoughts on overpriced art?"
I stare at him. "You want to take me to breakfast?"
"I want to hear more of your stories. The real ones, not the performance versions." He stands, offering me his elbow again. "But first, let's go look at some overpriced garbage and you can tell me exactly what's wrong with it."
I should say no. Should suggest his place instead, get this back on track. Should stop letting him derail my carefully laid plans with his genuine interest and his breakfast invitations and his hands that shake slightly when he's nervous.
Instead, I find myself standing, my hand curling around his arm. "Okay. But I'm warning you, I have very strong opinions about modern art."
"Good," he says, leading me back toward the main hall where the auction is starting. "I like strong opinions."
And as we walk through the crowd of Manhattan's elite, my borrowed dress rustling against my legs and Griffin's sleeve rolling habit making me smile despite myself, I can't shake the feeling that I'm the one being conned.
The worst part?
I think I like it.
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