Laken

Grabbing the sports bottle off the floor, I squeeze a stream of water into my mouth, tilting my head back as the cool liquid rushes down my throat. My breath is heavy, my heart pounding from the brutal treadmill session I just put myself through.

I went too hard today. I can feel it in the way my legs tremble slightly, the way my muscles burn like fire under my skin. But I needed it. Needed to push myself past exhaustion, to feel something other than the constant hum of thoughts rattling around in my skull.

Wiping the sweat from my face with a towel, I reach for my phone as it buzzes on the bench beside me. My brother’s name flashes across the screen.

Ethan.

I almost ignore it. Almost.

But I know better. If I don’t answer, he’ll just keep calling. And knowing him, he’ll send someone to track me down if I go radio silent for too long.

So, with a sigh, I press the button and lift the phone to my ear. “What’s up?”

“You’ve been summoned.”

Of course. I should’ve known this was business. It usually is. He stopped the 'Are you okay?' and the 'how are you holding up?' calls a long time ago.

“Tonight?” I ask, already bracing myself for the answer.

“Yep.”

I roll my eyes. “Can’t Dean or Seb handle it instead?”

“You know how this works,” Ethan says, voice smooth but firm. “Client specifically requested you.”

I clench my jaw, irritation creeping in. “I’ve got a date.”

Ethan laughs outright. “Bullshit.”

I scowl at nothing. “I could have a date.”

“Yeah? Who’s the lucky lady?”

I say nothing.

Ethan snorts. “Exactly. You haven’t even looked at a woman in months, years even.” His tone softens slightly, but not enough to let me off the hook. “Listen, man, I get it. But this isn’t just some random gig. She picked you, and she paid double for the privilege.”

I pause, my grip tightening around the phone. “Double?”

“Two grand for a sit-down dinner. Two hours of your time.”

That makes me frown. Escort rates aren’t cheap, but double the price just for dinner? That’s unusual. Most of our clients are looking for company, someone to make them feel special for a night. But this woman—whoever she is—wants something specific.

And she wants me.

Unease curls in my stomach.

“How did she even pick me?” I ask, running a hand through my damp hair. “I thought we rotated clients based on availability.”

“Not anymore,” Ethan says, sounding smug. “I updated the website. You all have your own profiles now.”

I frown. “I never agreed to that.”

“You never said no, either,” Ethan points out. “Besides, business has been booming since the change. You should really check out your profile, man. You might learn something about yourself.”

"And what exactly does my profile say?”

Ethan chuckles. “I gave you guys nicknames.”

My eyes narrow. “Nicknames?”

“Yep. You’re Thor.”

I groan. “Jesus, Ethan.”

“What? You’ve got the whole broody, long-haired, built-like-a-god thing going on. Women eat that shit up.”

I shake my head. “Please tell me you didn’t put my actual job on there.”

“Relax, I kept it vague. Scenic artist, model, escort—you know, all the ways you use your good looks for a paycheck.”

I mutter a curse under my breath.

Ethan sighs. “Come on, Lake. Two hours. You show up, eat some overpriced food, flash that broody look women seem to love, and walk away with easy money.”

I don’t care about the money. I never have. I don't need it.

The only reason I agreed to do this in the first place was for Ethan. He needed guys he could trust when he first started this business, and I figured my strict boundaries would keep me out of most jobs.

Turns out, some women actually like the idea of an escort who doesn’t sleep with clients.

They want intimacy without expectations.

Or, in this case, a woman wants something else entirely.

“Do I at least get a name?” I mutter.

“Miss Foster,” Ethan says. “That’s all I’ve got.”

Doesn’t tell me much.

“Montague’s. Seven o'clock. Don’t be late,” Ethan adds.

I scrub a hand over my face. Every fiber of my being is telling me to say no, to walk away from whatever this is.

But I know Ethan.

I know this business means something to him.

And even though I didn't want anything to do with it in the beginning. I made a promise to help him after he wore me down.

So I sigh, already regretting this. “Fine.”

“That’s my guy,” Ethan says, and I can hear the grin in his voice. “Try to have fun, yeah? Maybe you can make a new friend if anything." We both know that’s not going to happen.
"I have a reputation to uphold, so don't blow it, brother."

I hang up without answering..

Instead, I drop my phone back onto the bench, grab my towel, and head for the showers, hoping that by the time I step out, I’ll feel more prepared.

But deep down, I know the truth.

I don’t want to go to this dinner.

I don’t want to be chosen by anyone.

Not after the only person who ever really chose me is gone.

And no amount of overpriced food or easy money is going to change that.

Why did I agree to be part of this again?

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