Sunday, the day of the date.
Seven had insisted on picking me up. A chance to not have to either drive or take an Uber is a welcome change. And being that Seven is wealthy as hell, I’m guessing he has a pretty cool car.
He said he’d pick me up at seven—hahaha—but I’d been ready by 6:45, makeup done, hair in an updo with a few strands artfully draped by my face. I gave myself one more good look in the mirror. I was pacing and resisting the urge to have a drink to calm my nerves.
Five-nine, almost five-ten, gray eyes that went almost silver in certain light, freckles spotted across my cheeks, and other places. I was still slender, thanks in large part to genetics, honestly, but also because I was careful about what I ate, lifted weights three days a week, and ran with Zoe several times a week when I wasn’t lifting. My hips were decent, my ass nice and tight, and I had admittedly small breasts, a middling B-cup that a really good bra could turn into a decent C; I’d considered implants a few years ago, but I’d heard too many horror stories from clients about leaks or having to have them taken out due to infections and all sorts of shuddery things, so I’d decided to stay au naturel.
I’d opted for a bra that didn’t change my natural size but did flatter my build in this dress. The best thing about the dress was what it did for my legs, which were long and strong—every day was leg day at the gym. Paired with the heels, my legs and ass looked fantastic, so I felt pretty good about myself as I waited for Seven to arrive.
6:54, and my phone blooped. I’d already saved his number.
7: I’m here. No rush if you’re not ready, I don’t mind waiting.
Me: I’m ready. Be right down. Which car are you in?
7: You’ll know it when you see it haha
I snorted a laugh and rolled my eyes at that, heading down to the ground floor. The elevator opened, and Tommy, the evening doorman of my building, smiled at me, heading over to open the door for me.
“Lookin’ mighty fine tonight, Miss Scott. Hot date?”
“Thank you, Tommy. It’s a blind date, actually, so we’ll see.”
“You? A blind date? Say it ain’t so, darlin’.”
I laughed, pausing at the door to talk to Tommy, who was a tall, rotund, garrulous, genial man with a happy smile and a kind word for everyone. “Well, it’s not technically a true blind date. Let’s just say I know who he is, so I know what he looks like, but I’ve never actually met him.”
Tommy blinked at me. “I ain’t sure how that works out, but you do you, boo.” He eyed the parking lot. “That him in the fancy car?”
I followed Tommy’s gaze, and sure enough, there was a low, sleek sports car with murderous curves—it was yellow and black, with intake vents on the sides and a spoiler on the back. I didn’t recognize it, which was saying something considering I sold ultra-luxury real estate in Beverly Hills, Orange County, and Malibu, where you frequently saw some of the most expensive cars on the market.
“I’m guessing that is him,” I said to Tommy. “He said I’d know his car when I saw it.”
“That there is a mighty expensive whip,” Tommy said. “He must be flush, if that’s your date.”
“What is it, do you know?”
“Hell if I know—ain’t ever seen one of them before.” He shrugged. “All’s I know is, lines like that are expensive as hell, whether it’s on a woman or a car.” He grinned at his joke as I headed out the doors. “Be safe, okay?”
“I will.”
I headed for the car, and as I approached, the driver’s door swung open—not swinging out, but rotating up. A gargantuan male slid out, and my heart nearly stopped.
Seven St. John.
He was bigger in real life than he seemed on TV, and he looked enormous on TV. Six-four, maybe six-five, weighing I don’t know how much but a fucking ton, all of it rock hard muscle. He was wearing faded blue jeans over black leather boots, with a white button-down, the sleeves folded up to his elbow, unbuttoned to mid-chest. It should have looked douchey, being unbuttoned so far, but his chest was so broad, so powerful and heavily tattooed, that it somehow just worked, as if the shirt was simply incapable of containing his sheer breadth and depth of chest. The shirt was thin, nearly see-through as the brilliant evening sun hit it. He had mirrored aviators on, hiding his eyes.
His skin was a warm, dark golden brown, and his hair was jet black, tightly curled, shaved on the sides and left in a wide mohawk on top. Again, on most men, mohawks looked stupid and douchey, but Seven made it work, and work well. On his left wrist was a heavy silver watch, and even from a distance I could tell it was expensive.
His cheeks were chiseled out of granite, his jawline hewn from marble. Stubble shadowed his jaw, and tattoos crept up his neck from his chest and shoulders, writhed on his forearms. More ink on his knuckles—I couldn’t tell what the letters on his knuckles read.
I was walking toward him on autopilot, but my brain was rapidly attempting to process the fact that he was here, picking me up, that he was real, that he knew who I was. I didn’t follow boxing, but even if you didn’t, you knew Seven. You knew his rep. You’d seen him on tabloids, whether a scandalous shot of him doing something inappropriate in public with his flavor of the week, or in a brawl in a bar somewhere exotic, or basking on a yacht in the Mediterranean with A-list buddies, you’d seen him.
Seeing him live and in person, I had a momentary existential crisis. Why had I agreed to this date? This was a famous man, an infamous player. I was probably just another snack to him. So…why had I agreed to this date?
Curiosity, certainly. It’s not every day that a celebrity just cold calls you and asks you out. And I may not follow boxing, but a hot guy is a hot guy, and Seven St. John was sex on a stick. So, maybe it was also pure lust, like, just the opportunity to be close to a man that fine. And maybe, possibly, get a shot at messing around with him. See how those big hard hands of his felt on my body.
Fine. So, it was curiosity and libido that had goaded me into agreeing to this date. And seeing him exit the car and rise to his intimidating full height, seeing those cheekbones, that killer grin…yeah. I wasn’t regretting it.
Maybe I would end up regretting it—maybe I was just going to be another flavor of the week or day for him. Maybe he was just curious in return as to what kind of girl would put up an advertisement for herself on social media. But regardless of his intentions…here he was. And I could avoid the topic, right?
He stepped around the front of his car and up onto the sidewalk, and grinned at me, removing his sunglasses. His grin was dazzling, arresting. Arousing. His eyes were deep dark brown, melted chocolate and cinnamon.
“Autumn Scott,” he rumbled, extending a hand. “Goddamn—you look like a motherfuckin’ goddess.”
My stomach flipped, twisted. I took his hand, and nearly yanked it away immediately; electricity shot through me at his touch. His hand was massive, felt like leather and cinderblock, and even as he gently wrapped his fingers around my hand, I could feel the power in his hand.
Instead of shaking my hand, he brought it to his lips. Kissed the back, damp warm lips touching my knuckles.
He smelled amazing. Soap, a faint whiff of cologne, leather from the wide, weathered plain black cuff on his right wrist.