Angelo clears his throat and loosens his tie. “Right, well… Miss Sommers, let’s talk color schemes.”

SIX

ALECK

I need to take the edge off.

The edge? Winter fucking Sommers. The tiny room I’m staying in. Angelo, the dipshit wedding planner. The wedding…

Typically when I feel this way, I find myself an escape in the form of a nice set of tits. But the headaches to end all headaches, Winter Sommers, made no women in our suite her negotiation leverage. If you would have asked me a week ago if I’d trade dicking a beautiful woman for closet space, I would have shoved my Italian loafer up your ass. Or at the very least, laughed in your face.

So, now, I drink. Just a few.

After our two-hour meeting with Angelo, Winter went back up to the room, and I made my way to the bar. I would have asked her to join me, and maybe I’m an asshole because I didn’t, but there’s only so much filtering I can do. And typically I don’t filter anything, but I promised Preston I would make sure Winter and I got on swimmingly.

And did I seriously just offer that tool ten thousand dollars to treat Winter with respect? The prick had an attitude, but he was right, this wedding is unorthodox. It’s in less than two weeks, and the bride isn’t even present. Just some uninvolved asshole and a woman named Winter Sommers who wears Chuck Taylors with no socks have been left to plan the late wedding of Max Bose’s daughter.

If I were Angelo, I’d be shitting myself right about now too.

That said, he gave her shit, and I didn’t like it. I’ve given her shit since we met, but he gave her shit, and I didn’t like it.

The bartender approaches my end of the bar. He’s fairly young, seemingly handsome, and looks kind of like a younger version of me. The sleeves of his white collared shirt are rolled up to his elbows, revealing tattoos on both arms down to his wrists. I bet he pulls his fair share of tail around here.

“What can I get for you, sir?”

“Whiskey neat. Top shelf, please.” I slide my black Amex across the bar. “Don’t serve me more than three.”

“Of course, sir.” He nods and pours three fingers of Macallan 30 in a whiskey tumbler and slides it forward. I bring the glass to my lips, breathing in the earthy sting of expensive bourbon, and take a sip.

Mental note: Stock the suite with whiskey. I’m going to need a lot of it.

“Hello, handsome…”

A beautiful woman in a silky black dress that hangs off her shoulders slides onto the barstool next to me. Her long blonde hair cascades over her bare shoulders and curls slightly at the ends. Hair this beautiful makes me want to pull it from behind.

“You looking for some company?”

I take a slow pull from my whiskey. “Not particularly.”