8:04 p.m.
Braxton: Hey, soo there's a fire at the restaurant. Not a literal fire, but shit is crazy. I can't leave right now. I'm sorry, babe. Still go and have fun.
I blinked at the text, hoping I misread it. I hadn't. My date for the Mayor's First Annual Sweethearts Gala had just stood me up.
A scoff left my lips before I could stop it. Couples in tuxedos and glittering gowns streamed past me into the Regency Fine Arts Museum, and I suddenly felt like they all knew. Like they could see the embarrassment and fury shimmering in my tear-pricked eyes.
This was Braxton—the man who'd been wooing me for a month, the one who insisted we meet here tonight. That should've been my first red flag, but I'd given him grace. He was a successful restaurateur, after all. Things happen when you're the boss.
Still, I had convinced myself he'd make it. I told myself he wouldn't dare leave me hanging on Valentine's Day—especially not when I looked like this.
My reflection from earlier flashed in my mind: a 5'5, curvy woman poured into a Persian-red sequin mermaid gown from my boutique, Kenderella. It hugged every dip and curve like it had been sewn just for me. A fur shawl draped over my shoulders. My hair, a cascade of dark curls. My makeup flawless. I was ready for a fairytale.
Instead, I got a text.
"Oh, he is dead in my books," I muttered, turning toward the parking deck to call a driver. But fate wasn't done humiliating me. My stiletto heel wedged deep between two cobblestones, nearly sending me sprawling.
"Great. Just…great."
I bent to tug it free, the slit of my gown parting dangerously, when a smooth baritone cut through the night.
"Here, let me help you."
A honey-hued hand clasped my ankle with gentle firmness. Another worked my heel free, then unbuckled the strap and slipped the shoe off before guiding me toward a bench.
When I looked up—heart racing, breath caught—I found myself staring into the face of Mayor Jameson Belafonte.
Not my prince charming. Everyone's prince charming.
But right then, in his tailored tuxedo, smile gleaming like sin and salvation, and my stiletto dangling from his hand…he might as well have stepped out of a fairy tale.
"I got your shoe out," he said, kneeling. "Mind if I?"
Before I could protest, he slid the heel back onto my foot, fastening the strap with an ease that sent sparks up my leg. His hand brushed my ankle, warm and unhurried. My breath betrayed me with a shiver.
"Ms. Ellis," he greeted, eyes narrowing slightly in recognition.
"Please, call me Kennedy," I managed, smoothing my dress.
"And you may call me Jameson." His smile deepened. "Kennedy, you look…beautiful."
A blush burned my cheeks. "Thank you, but I was just leaving—"
"So soon? The night's barely begun."
"My date…" I trailed off, biting my tongue before too much spilled out.
He studied me for a long moment, then said simply, "You're far too stunning to leave alone. Be my guest."
My eyes widened. "I don't want to be part of some political stunt."
"What stunt?" His voice softened, almost amused. "The only thing I'd gain is a beautiful guest on my arm. No strings. Just the pleasure of your company."
My heart fluttered in dangerous agreement. Against every better judgment, I slipped my arm through his.
And just like that, I was walking into the Sweethearts Gala on the arm of the most powerful—and most notorious—man in Regency.
The golden ballroom swallowed us in music and light, and I could feel eyes darting our way. My boutique gown shimmered under the chandeliers, and when his security collected my shawl, Jameson's gaze lingered on me with such raw admiration that my knees weakened.
"Stunning," he murmured, as if the word belonged only to me.
I pretended not to notice how my pulse quickened.
Later, when he found me again—this time extending his hand on the dance floor to the soft strains of a string rendition of If I Ain't Got You—I knew I was in trouble.
"You just need a moment for the cameras?" I teased, raising a brow.
He laughed, low and rich. "Is that what you think? Kennedy, I'm simply…enamored. I wanted another moment near you."
My heart tripped. I wanted to scoff, to push him off as another playboy in a suit. But when his hand pressed lightly against the small of my back, sparks shot through me, and honesty betrayed me.
"Not quite," I whispered. "It's mutual."
His eyes darkened, the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth promising far more than polite conversation.
"I'm flying to D.C. tonight," he said. "I was going alone, but…come with me. Just for a night out."
I froze. Home to an empty bed—or a spontaneous trip on a private jet with the mayor?
My lips curved before my mind caught up.
"What time should I meet you, Mayor?"