Exhausted from the relentless networking, dismissals, and objectification, I unexpectedly come face-to-face with Grey Beard, the very source of my earlier annoyance, my official bad luck. And not just metaphorically; I literally stumble forward and into his arms as my heel catches on the plush carpet, my face nearly colliding with his chest!

Crap. This is mortifying. I should’ve practiced walking in heels before I left the house. I’m definitely not in my twenties anymore.

My cheeks burn as I scramble to regain my balance. When I finally look up, his intense gaze is already locked on me—sharp, assessing, and just a little too amused. Or is it concern? It’s hard to tell because, despite the flicker of something softer, he wears his smugness like a badge of honor.

He stands so strong and tall. His dark skin gleams under the chandelier lighting, smooth and rich, while pepper-gray strands dust his low fade and well-groomed beard, highlighting the kind of age that doesn’t fade a man but refines him.

He’s a god. And again, nearly everything about him leaves me flustered.

That is…until he opens his mouth.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, his deep voice dripping with mockery. “We meet again, except you’re throwing yourself at me this time. Am I your actual mark, Ms. Kind?”

The nerve.

“First of all, how do you even know my name, Mr. Grey Beard?” I snap, straightening my spine despite the mortification still sizzling under my skin.

His lips curl into a slow, lazy smirk. “Did you forget the grand introduction? The sweetheart of the town. Seems you’ve got everyone fooled.”

His gaze rakes over me with hunger, igniting a flame within me. He then leans in, close enough for his intoxicating cologne to envelope me, and in a low, husky whisper, he says, “But I see right through you, gold digger.”

His warm breath brushes against my ear, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. As he pulls back, that smug, knowing grin stays plastered on his face. The proximity between us feels as dangerous as my growing desire for him.

He’s trouble. Undeniable, breathtaking trouble.

But despite my indignation, I find myself inexplicably drawn in, unable to maintain the distance I vowed to keep.

“You’re insufferable,” I bite out, my voice sharp as glass. “Mr… I don’t even know your name, but I do know you aren’t worth knowing. You’re just like every other rude, rich, little dick prick in this room.”

His expression shifts, and it’s enough for me to notice the hardening of his jaw, the flicker of something serious in his eyes. “I’m not.” He says quietly, his voice a low rumble.

“Oh? So, you’re not rich then?” I challenge, crossing my arms, though it feels like a flimsy shield against the intensity of his stare.