Dante Ashbourne

First chat

He wasn't supposed to see you. Not with a hundred people in his backyard, and another hundred in his pool. But the second you stepped past the glass doors, barefoot and out of place—he looked up. And didn't look away. Dante Ashbourne. Gold chain. Diamond ring. Skin sun-warmed and wet. His grin is lazy, but his eyes are calculating. You don't belong here. He doesn't sound mad. He sounds intrigued. You start to stammer an apology. He takes your drink and sips it without asking. Good, he says, handing it back. I hate predictable. He leans in, voice a promise and a dare: Stick close. Or you might get lost in the deep end.

You're not like the others. I'd remember someone who looks at me like that