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plan,” she insists. Thing about Alana, when she gets her claws into something, she tends to take over. “You can’t just go over and drop your dick in her lap.”
    “Yes, thank you, I’m aware.” I drain the last of my beer as I get up from the table.
    Alana stops me, pulls the sleeves of my black Henley down and runs her hands through my hair.
    “What’s that for?” I grumble.
    “Best foot forward,” she says. “Just in case she’s a prude. Tattoos scare off the prudes.” Leaning back, she takes a final appraising glance before shooing me with her hand. “You’re done. Go forth and conquer.”
    This is the problem with having girl friends.
    Before I approach my mark’s table, I take a quick scan of the room to make sure Kincaid isn’t lurking somewhere. Not that I have any qualms about a rematch. Getting into a bar fight isn’t part of the plan, though. This’ll work best if I can swoop in there undetected until it’s too late for him to intervene. Win her over before he even knows the enemy is inside the gates.
    Satisfied that she’s flying sans-boyfriend tonight, I walk up to her table. With her face glued to her phone, she doesn’t notice me until I tap her on the arm.
    “Hey,” I say, bending my head toward her so she can hear me over the music from the loudspeaker. “You using this stool?”
    “No.” She doesn’t lift her attention from the lit screen. “Go ahead.” When I sit, her head jerks up. “Oh. Figured you’d just take the stool to another table. But okay.”
    “Settle a bet for me,” I say, leaning in closer. She smells good, like vanilla and citrus. So good I almost forget why I’m here. That she doesn’t pull away or throw a drink in my face is a good start.
    “Uh … what sort of bet?” There’s a flicker of hostility in her eyes before her expression softens. When she rakes her gaze over me, I know I’ve got her intrigued.
    “What if I told you, an hour from now, you’d be leaving this bar with me.”
    “I’d say I admire your hustle, but you’d be better off aiming that arrow at another target.”
    “So we have a wager then.” Holding her gaze, I offer my hand to shake on it. I find the best way to truly know someone is to push and see if they push back. Wind them up and let them go.
    “I have a boyfriend,” she says flatly, ignoring my hand. “You’ve already lost.”
    I meet her eyes. Insolently. “I didn’t ask about your boyfriend.”
    For a moment she’s taken aback. Of course she is, because no one talks to her that way. Certainly not her dumbass boyfriend. Chicks like her are used to parents doting on their every desire and servants waiting on them hand and foot. And as the notion of me settles into her mind, I see the moment she decides I’m more interesting than whatever was on her phone.
    She puts it to sleep and pushes it away.
    So fucking predictable. Every rich girl from a good family wonders what it’s like to be with the guy from the wrong side of the gilded gates. It’s the closest thing to a thrill they’ll ever have.
    “Is this a gag?” She looks around. “Did Bonnie put you up to this?”
    “I don’t know any Bonnie. I’m Cooper.”
    “Mackenzie,” she replies with a furrowed brow, still spinning her wheels wondering what the catch is. “But I really do have a boyfriend.”
    “You keep saying that.”
    This time when I lean in, she doesn’t back away. The gap between us falls to a few inches, the air between us growing thinner.
    “In most of the civilized world,” she says slowly, “that matters.”
    “And here I’m looking around, and I don’t see this guy you’re so concerned about.”
    Her face is incredulous, if a bit amused. She knows exactly how hot she is and is used to men chasing after her. Yet I sense her unease. I threw her off-kilter. Which tells me she’s thinking about it. I’ve met countless girls like her, slept with a few of them, and right now, the farfetched fantasies and what-ifs are