This story is inspired by the story Black Hearted, written by the incredible dlcroisette who has been supporting me on my path to writing romance. It's my WIP that features slow-burn (tamer) romance with focus the billionaire/enemies to lovers tropes.

Blurb:

Isobel Martin is desperately broke and in dire need of a steady job. She is also fiercely proud and would never accept a handout. Especially not from an arrogant prick like Braydon LeFay who believes that his money can buy him the world.

For years, Braydon LeFay's life has been on a collision course with hell. With the help of his family's name and wealth, his days evolve around booze and short flings with women he usually cares little about. The night he meets Isobel, she touches something deep inside him he wishes to ignore, but he can't get himself to stay away from her.

Isobel's POV

I swing around the pole and arch my back to give the customers a good view of my crotch. Not that any of these assholes is even looking. When I didn't venture off the stage for some groping after their fingers beckoned me to do so, the bachelor group lost interest. They are chatting and laughing, throwing back one drink after another, without even a glance in my direction.

The rest of the club is as dead as my bank account; something I should've expected on an icy Monday night when half of America is watching last year's Super Bowl champion taking on this year's top contender. Men and sports are like pretzels and salt; one can't exist without the other. Only one other patron has made himself comfortable in an overstuffed chair. Legs sprawled apart in a way as if he's expecting me to sit on his cock, he sips from his glass; the rest of the time, his lips split to a wide grin. He is dressed in a dark suit with the tie loosened and the first couple of buttons undone and looks like a man on a business trip, wanting to score.

Not happening, buddy.

Probably has a wife and a bunch of young kids at home and uses those nights away to blow off steam because of marriage problems. Men who go to strip clubs are all the same—they are either about to get married and about to get divorced. No one in a happy relationship ogles another woman's ass.

The music fades and I storm off the stage, ready to call it a night. This evening's shift at the club was just a humongous waste of my time; the base salary of ten dollars an hour will not even buy me a decent lunch tomorrow, and I have zero tips to show for. Bridget, my friend who is to blame for this gig, is in the dressing room, happily counting the dollar bills the bachelor group stuck into the strap of her panties.

She grins. "Those boys were good tippers."

"They didn't give me anything."

"Then you didn't do it right."

I scoff; I'm not reducing myself to being their sex toy.

"Did you leave the stage? Give them a lap dance?" Bridget's blue eyes with a tinge of violet from her colored contacts give me a critical once over.

"The club has a strict no-touch policy."

"Which no one follows." She sighs. "C'mon, Isobel, if you want to make it here, you need to get out of your comfort zone. Go a little wild. Give customers what they want."

"That's not me."

"Well, if you don't have your rent money on Friday and Pete insists on giving him a blow job to cover your part, don't come crying to me."

"He can go and fuck himself. Nastiest prick around." The mere thought of touching him between his legs gives me the creeps.

"Sure, but I can't cover your share again, so you better get some cash lined up."

Before I can reply, Hawk, the manager, pokes his head around the door. Of course, without knocking since he's a perv at heart who likes to see the girls changing their outfits.

"Isobel, you got an offer for the VIP lounge. A hundred bucks tip for half an hour."

That's a fortune, but that type of money also means that I will have to take my clothes off and the asshole is probably expecting to rub his dick between my legs.

Unacceptable.

"Sorry, but I'm not interested."

"I'll do it." Bridget is to her feet, her teeth digging into her lip. She is way too eager to get laid.

"Sorry, but the guy asked specifically for Isobel."

Must be the prick in the dark suit.

"Like I said, not interested."

Hawk rolls his eyes. "Bridget, could you excuse us for a second?"

She grimaces but clears the field without protest. I have a pretty good idea what will be next.

Hawk drops into a chair and steeples his fingers. The image of him being all business-like is ridiculous since he has zero class and treats his employees like shit.

"Isobel, you have been with us now what, three weeks?"

"About that."

"During that time, you have not worked the VIP lounge once or engaged with any of the customers. You brought no regulars to the club. All those are important parts of the job."

"What about the no-touch policy?"

"You simply don't get it. I'm afraid I'll have to let you go. I need a stripper who can actually pull in some money for the club."

"Fine." I hated the job anyway.

"You can pick up your final paycheck tomorrow."

"Just give it to Bridget." The hundred and fifty dollars won't get me out of my dire financial situation.

What the fuck am I going to do now?

Wait tables, I suppose, or try my luck with fast food. Anything to survive that doesn't involve men touching my butt. I should've never let Bridget talk me into this shitty job.

I slip into my thin coat, a remnant of my LA days, which is totally unsuitable for the harsh Boston winter and bang the locker shut. "I guess I'll see you around."

Hawk's smile is thin. "Good luck."

Serendipity and I never hit it off. My life has always been a disaster and no amount of luck will ever change that. The type of love stories where girls like me meet a decent guy are just fairy tales.

Happy endings don't exist in my world.

~~~~

Braydon's POV

She had a nice ass and was mega cute, but that doesn't change the fact that the little skank blew me off. What the actual fuck? Girls who strip are usually desperate and compliant, especially those who work in a dump like the Horse Shack. Who even comes up with a name like that?

Pushing my gloved hands deep into the pocket of my wool coat, I step outside the club to fight the elements. It's a miserable night with icy roads and the prospect of more snow, and the only reason I'm even out here is that I didn't want to watch the game. I didn't want to watch him.

The mere thought of Twiggy Harris gets my blood boiling.

I spit on the ground.

Shit, I shouldn't let him get under my skin.

So what if he won? His victory will only be temporary. As soon as Gemma gets tired of him, she'll be crawling back to me. I'm gonna have the last laugh.

I'm about to turn and head for my limo when clanging metal draws my attention to the farthest end of the parking lot. I squint at the bizarre scene, barely able to contain a chuckle. There is the stripper, kicking the crap out of an old clunker.

You go, girl!

"Fucking piece of shit!" The loud shout floating across the parking lot carries with it the desperation of tears.

This could be my chance to become her knight in shining armor. I'll offer her a ride and a drink to warm her up, and once she gets to know me, she'll take off her clothes. They always do, even if it's just for my family name and their desire to "save" me. The poor, tormented boy with the deep emotional scars. A sob story I've always exploited.

I cross the parking lot and arrive just as the car has to endure another kick. This time, the bumper bows out and drops to the ground.

Well done.

I smirk. "You need help with that, gorgeous?"

She spins around, her brows furrowing. "Fuck off."

She sure has a filthy mouth, though her lips look kissable.

"Hey, just trying to help. Your car is about to give up and it's late, so maybe you could use a ride?"

With a sigh, she runs her hand through those stunning raven locks. Her smoky gray eyes are piercing and I take a step back.

Something is off.

I need to leave.

My legs betray me as they stay bolted in place; when she gives me a smile, my heartbeat accelerates.

"Thanks for the offer, but I'm fine." Mist from the cold streams from her mouth and her teeth glisten in the moonlight. Shivering in her flimsy coat, she appears vulnerable and helpless.

Instead of running for the hills, I take a step forward. "Let me at least call you an Uber."

She rolls her eyes. "Look, I don't know what this is, but I'm not interested."

"This is nothing but me trying to be nice to a fellow human being." Finally able to break her intense stare, I want to slap myself. What am I even saying? I shouldn't have to beg her to accept my help.

Her smile turns more genuine. "I appreciate that."

"So what about that ride?" I remember my manners. "I'm Braydon, by the way, Braydon LeFay." I search her features for a sign of recognition. The eagerness to get to know me that usually follows when I reveal my family name.

Her face is totally blank and she makes no attempt to speak. A gust of wind gets her to sway and her teeth chatter from the cold.

I'm about ready to offer her my coat. "I got drinks in my limo that'll warm you right up."

Her smile fades. "Your limo?" She scoffs. "Forget it. I'm outta here."

She makes it three steps before one of her killer heels sabotages her escape. It snaps like a rotten branch of a tree. I lunge for her elbow but my efforts are too late. Her knees take the brunt of the fall.

"Shit, why is everything going wrong today?" Tears burn in her eyes as she looks up at me. She reminds me of Chase, my puppy, after a car hit him.

I offer her my hand. "Please, let me take you home."

Her drilling gaze is back and finds its way into my rotting soul. Holding my breath, I stand in the cold like an idiot with my arm stretched out to a woman who has made it abundantly clear that she doesn't want my help.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

After what seems an eternity, she finally takes my hand and I pull her up.

"You take me home, nothing else. There won't be any stops, no drinks, no small talk or chit chat about what great of a guy you are. We won't exchange phone numbers and you will forget where I live the second I'm out of your car."

Flinching back, I'm rattled by all the hostility. "Okay, I got it. No future dates."

The look she tosses me is lethal, though I think it's kind of funny. The more she tries to push me away, the more I want to taste those stubborn lips. She is different from my usual conquests—definitely fiercer with a mind of her own. And my money certainly doesn't impress her, though I'm not sure she even knows who I am.

When I slip out of my coat, she allows me to wrap it around her. Her little limp drops my gaze to her knees; the fishnet tights are torn and her skin is scraped and bleeding. The glow in her gray eyes demands that I keep my mouth shut. She is not someone who loves to drown in self-pity, which is refreshing. Most women I date love to whine and complain.

Opening the car door for her, I help her inside. She scoots over, probably expecting me to follow, but I have other plans.

I turn to my driver. "Jo, take the lady wherever she wants to go. I'll see you back at the house."

Confusion is edged on her face, but I slam the limo door closed before she can ask me any questions. I had enough of those unnerving eyes that intrude places that are off-limits.

I need a stiff drink and a little bit of fun. Maybe that other dancer is up to making a quick buck and will offer me some relief.

Because by god, after meeting this stripper, I certainly need it. She rubbed me in all the wrong ways, but with any luck, I'll never have to see her again.

If you enjoyed this teaser, you can follow the ongoing story on REAM or KINDLE VELLA. Links can be found under my profile or you can DM me. The completed story will become available as an eBook and paperback later this year.