I grab the nearest book and crack it open. It’s a James Patterson. “Once upon a time, there was a woman at a party who wanted to be kissed,” I say, walking to her, the pages open.

The angel raises her hands to her hair and sweeps off the headband that holds her halo. She tosses it to the desk. “That sounds like a very scintillating tale.”

6

Sabrina

The night is glitter. It’s fireworks. It’s an unexpected victory in a game I didn’t intend to play. I’m almost at the finish line, about to win Boardwalk.

Tonight doesn’t belong to my failed wedding, to my cursed dress, to the thief who raised me. It sure as hell doesn’t belong to my lost job.

This night is mine, and I’m going to take my winnings, this delicious morsel of pure pleasure the universe is serving on a silver platter. Tomorrow, I have to return to my regular life where I’m scraping by, fighting for every damn thing I need and want. Hell, I might turn into a pumpkin at midnight. But right now? There’s a man who wants me. A man I want.

I didn’t come here for a guy. But now that he’s found me—this other version of me—I want him to keep talking, keep touching, and keep going.

Now I truly understand why all the heroines in those historical romances craved masquerades so much. You can let down your guard, talk freely, tease. It’s so much easier to be who you are when no one knows who you are.

I’m not a woman with an unused wedding dress. I’m this other version of me. Tonight’s me. A woman with no past. And the man in my present is so damn handsome—at least, what I can see of him. His square jaw, his lush lips, and his green eyes captivate me.

He glances down at the book, as if reading from it, then back up at me. “She had the prettiest lips,” he says, and my stomach swoops.

Then, because we’re playing our parts, I imagine what comes next in my script, and I do it. No holding back. I blow an almost imperceptible kiss in his direction, whispering into the air, “Did she?”

He hums an appreciative sound then tosses the book onto the desk. Closing the distance between us, he runs a finger over my top lip. I gasp.

His gaze pins me, and the butterflies in my belly escalate to full-blown dives. “And the most mischievous eyes he’d ever seen.”

He runs a hand along my hip, and I ignite. Fire burns everywhere. I shudder as he touches me.

“And an absolutely addictive body,” he adds.

I think I want him addicted to me. “How do you know I’m addictive?”

“I don’t. But I want to find out. That’s why I’m telling the story.”

“What happens next?” My voice sounds breathless, maybe even a little giddy.

“The narrator isn’t finished extolling the virtues of the woman who wanted to be kissed.”