I own the hottest boutique hotel in Manhattan.
I’m busy, I’m successful, I’m rich, and I can seduce any woman I want. So when I agreed to another god-awful “bachelor auction” fundraiser for charity, I prepared myself for a date with some chick who blathered on about her cat, and how many children she’d like to have one day.
So when my “date,” the winner of the latest auction of my bad boy self, emailed me to set up a rendezvous, I planned on having one drink and bailing. My assistant knew exactly when to call me so I could fake an emergency.
Only this date was different. Sure, she was beautiful—Manhattan is full of stunning women. But this one was the CEO of a tech firm. And she could have given two craps about me. Before I knew it, her half-empty martini sat on the bar wearing the slightest smudge of her red lipstick.
Was she beating me at my own game? I couldn’t let that happen.