Filed to story: Watch Out, I’m The Lady Boss (Eleanor & Sebastian) Book PDF Free
The bartender sighed, but obliged.
“That guy’s right,” a smooth, magnetic voice murmured beside me.
“Too much alcohol can impair cognitive function and judgment. Unless you want to wake up in a stranger’s bed tonight-“
I turned, irritated-then froze.
It was him.
The man from last night. My new neighbor. The one who’d handed me my keys with all the casual elegance of a Renaissance statue.
“Well, well. You again.” I raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at my lips.
“You really can’t resist other people’s business, huh?”
He chuckled softly, completely unfazed.
“Think of it as a well-developed instinct for being helpful.”
I gave an exaggerated sigh.
“You’re a hero, truly. But I don’t need saving, Mr. Key Man.”
“I know,” he said calmly, lifting his glass and taking a slow sip. His eyes were clear and sharp.
“But you do seem in desperate need of clarity.”
I frowned.
“Is this how you treat all your neighbors? First their keys, then their dignity?”
He laughed-a low, rich sound.
“Only when the neighbor looks like she’s on the verge of self-destruction.”
“…But I am always self-destructing,” I muttered, suddenly quieter.
“Doesn’t it seem kind of pathetic? Like my whole life is just one mess after another?”
He didn’t laugh. He didn’t rush to reassure me, either. He didn’t even deny what I’d just said.
He just looked at me. Calm. Quiet. Like he was watching a slow-motion disaster unfold-but had no intention of stopping it.
“You’re not wrong,” he finally said, voice low and steady.
“You are pretty good at making a mess of things. Like right now-you can’t even stand properly and you’re still demanding more alcohol.”
I froze, frowning instinctively.
But he went on, his tone unhurried-like he was flipping through a book and had landed on a sentence he already knew by heart:
“But strangely, you always seem to meet someone who refuses to walk away… right before everything falls apart.”
I stared at him, half in shock, half in suspicion.
“Are you… flirting with me?”
He gave me a slow smile, his eyes lazily curving with just the right amount of mischief. His voice came out smooth and provocative, like velvet wrapped around steel.
“Does it make you feel any better?”
His voice was low and warm, like whiskey being poured into a glass at midnight-just a little dizzying, just a little dangerous. He looked at me with an intensity that felt nearly uncontrollable, like he might lean in close and whisper things in the dark, on a bed, asking if his touch was hard enough.
My heart skipped a beat. My cheeks flushed instantly. My fingertips tightened against the edge of the bar.
I had to look at him properly. Really see him.
That face-it wasn’t just handsome. It had the kind of quiet, devastating maturity that no amount of cologne and hair gel could fake. Not the kind you’d find among the over-groomed boys who danced to house music like they were owed the world.
A wild, uninvited thought flashed through my mind.
If I let him walk away tonight, maybe I was rejecting one of those rare, merciful moments when fate offered a second chance.
Before I could stop myself, my hand wrapped around the sleeve of his suit jacket. I rose from the barstool, heart pounding.
“So, Mr. Keys,” I said, my voice hoarse but firm, “since you’re so committed to helping… why not help all the way?”
He clearly hadn’t expected that. His brow lifted slightly, surprise flickering across his face-but he didn’t step back. He didn’t laugh. He simply said, calm and steady:
“Of course. As long as this is something you won’t deny when you’re sober.”
“I’m sure.” I answered without hesitation.
Gripping his wrist tighter, I pulled him through the crowd and out of the bar.
The night wind struck us like a cleansing slap, city lights flickering above.
I didn’t let myself pause. No time to think, no space for regret.
We crossed the street. Entered the nearest hotel lobby.
Because tonight, I needed to know if I had the courage to accept what fate had placed in front of me.
It must have been one hell of a night, because when I woke up, sunlight was spilling through the curtains, and the red LED numbers of the digital clock blinked 10:07 AM at me with the judgmental smugness of a nun catching you sneaking out of the church.
The sheets still carried his scent-bergamot and sin-and my body buzzed from the lingering aftershocks of what we’d done.
I stared at the ceiling and thought: That was absolutely phenomenal sex.
The kind that wrecks you, delights you, and makes you stupid enough to want another round.
I ached everywhere-in the best, most regrettable way.
But my head… my head was a battlefield. It felt like a hundred tiny jackhammers were drilling through my skull. The alcohol from last night had declared mutiny, and my brain was paying the price, like someone had jammed a red-hot poker through my temple.
I had no idea how much I drank-definitely more than I should’ve.
The details had vanished into a fog thicker than a London morning.
Groaning, I rolled out of bed. Groaned again. Began gathering the scattered pieces of my clothing.
The plan was simple: Get dressed. Sneak out. Pretend this never happened.
I had just picked up my skirt when a voice stopped me.
“Leaving so soon?”
Shit.
I turned-very slowly, thanks to the hangover and the shame-and saw him standing in the bathroom doorway, a towel slung low on his hips.
Droplets clung to his abs, catching the morning light, trailing down the deep V of his torso.
I stared. Unashamed.
Images from the night before surged back into my brain. I suddenly felt… very, very thirsty.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“We need to talk.”
He stood in front of me, voice disturbingly calm-like he was announcing the fridge had broken, not that I had thrown him onto a bed the night before.
Talk?
My brain instantly began filtering keywords. Talk about what? A debrief? A review? Or was he proposing some sort of…
“long-term sexual partnership”?
Definitely not a proposal. That only happens in soap operas written by people with chronic romance brain.
Was he worried I’d cling to him?
After all-it was me who started this.
I was the one who dragged him out of the bar.
I was the one who opened the hotel door.
I was the one who pinned him down without a second thought.
“Look,” I said, adopting the most adult, accountable tone I could muster, “last night was a mistake. A reckless, impulsive, but… undeniably enjoyable mistake.”
I tried not to look at his shoulders. Not at his chest. Not at the water droplets sliding down his clavicle, tracing the path over sculpted muscle.
“I’m not going to ask you to take responsibility. I won’t call you crying about emotional trauma. I’m not that kind of girl.”
He didn’t say anything.
Seeing no reaction, I turned to the door-cue graceful exit, complete with closure monologue.
But just as my hand reached the doorknob, a warm, wet palm landed on the back of mine.
I froze. Slowly turned around.
He was looking at me with an expression I couldn’t place-somewhere between surprise and… seriousness.
“You don’t remember me?” he asked softly.
I blinked, thrown. I answered quickly, almost defensive: “Of course I do. You’re my new neighbor. Helped me find my keys the other night.”
Technically true. Totally accurate.
What I didn’t say-and never would-was that even without those trivial interactions, I remembered him.