I wake slowly, rolling over to reach for the woman beside me as I had three other times last night, but my hand hits cold, empty sheets. My eyes snap open to confirm what I’m feeling.

She’s gone.

I sit up in bed, shove a hand through my hair, and survey the room. No sign that she’s ever been here.

Rolling out of bed, I pull on my crumpled suit pants, wrap a hand around my morning wood, and squeeze it in an effort to calm it down. I’d prefer to be going for round number five with her, but she’s fucking gone.

I pull on my shirt, telling myself that I don’t care, and if she were any other ordinary one-night stand, I wouldn’t. But last night was anything but ordinary.

And I wasn’t fucking done with her yet.

My inner monologue sounds altogether too close to a petulant child, but when you get to my level of wealth and success in life, you get used to having pretty much whatever the hell you want.

And I want her—right now, tomorrow, and until I’ve had enough—which I can’t imagine happening anytime soon.

I check the bathroom. Nothing. Not even a stray hairpin or smear of makeup on the counter.

Grabbing my wrinkled suit jacket, I let myself out of the room. There’s nothing but a destroyed bed and used condoms left inside anyway.

At the front desk, no amount of bribes or threats will get the name the reservation was made under. Apparently the Plaza prides itself on always offering the utmost privacy for all its guests.

Moralistic bastards.

Frustration grips me until my Machiavellian brain begins to formulate a plan. I refuse to admit defeat.

My lips tug with a smile. I know exactly how I’m going to handle this.

Merry fucking Christmas to me.

I just hope my “wife” is ready for what’s about to happen.

“And tonight’s top story: Billionaire playboy Creighton Karas has published a missed connection that has gone viral, and there’s no doubt as to why. Most of it we can’t read on the air, but the gist of it is, he spent Christmas Eve with a woman who he claims is going to be the next Mrs. Creighton Karas. The posting requests that the lady in question, whose name and number he didn’t get prior to or following their . . . encounter, show up at midnight on December 31st at the location of the tryst, which he claims only this particular lucky lady would know. Mr. Karas will be waiting with an engagement ring—and prenup—in hand.”

The green power smoothie in my hands falls to the floor of my tiny kitchen, the glass shattering on the tile and coating it with swampy goo as I gape at the TV.

Oh. My. God.

He didn’t.

He did.

Holy. Shit.

My cell phone rings, and I blindly grope the countertop for it. I don’t bother looking at the display. I know exactly who it is.

“Please don’t start screaming, Tana.”

Instead of the screeches I expect to hear, my friend speaks very calmly. “Holly, they’re talking about you on TV, but they don’t know they’re talking about you on TV.”

“Yeah. I figured that one out myself.”

“Please tell me you’re going to go,” she says.

“Are you serious?” I screech.

It was just supposed to be one night. A Christmas Eve fling. No one was supposed to know. Well, no one but me, the guy in question, and Tana, who demanded all the details when I told her I had a single amazing night with her potential backup husband.

“Holly—”

“What do you think would happen to my career if I did this?”

Tana is silent for a few beats before she answers. “It might be exactly what you need to get out of the disaster with JC. New Year’s Eve in New York, baby. You can go one way or the other.”

Holy crap, she’s right. But still . . .

“The label? My contract? What about those minor details?”

Homegrown will blackball me and find some way to slap me with a breach-of-contract suit if I don’t show up to this New Year’s Eve farce with JC and let him propose.

“Creighton Karas has enough money to buy your way out of your contract, if not the entire damn label. And he wants to marry you!”

I’m not sure why Tana is a dreamy-eyed romantic all of a sudden, but it’s misplaced. Either way, I’m now a cynical realist when it comes to things like my career.

Besides, Creighton Karas does not want to marry me because he’s in love with me. He’s probably in lust after all the things I let him do to me four days ago. All those things . . . I wasn’t even able to give Tana all the details because I was too dang embarrassed to put them into words.

My body heats just remembering. I’m still not sure where I found the courage.

Oh, that’s right—whiskey.

“He doesn’t want to marry me, he wants to marry my . . . pussy.” Crass, but it’s probably the truth. “With a prenup. And with his track record, that prenup is going to come into play sooner rather than later.”

After spending that night with him—the one where I left him buck naked and asleep in bed while I hopped in a cab to JFK, I did just the tiniest bit of research. All it took was one Google search to find out a heck of a lot.

Honestly, though, after reading the first few entries, I had to make myself stop. It didn’t matter because I was never going to see him again—not outside the zillions of pictures of him with other women. I also wasn’t the biggest fan of reading about his love ’em and leave ’em ways. Including his ex-wife, Shaw MacLeod, CEO of the chain of luxury MacLeod resorts.

“What the fuck ever,” Tana says. “Does it really make a difference? It’s Creighton Karas.”

“And I’m Holly Wix. I can’t take a chance this will blow up in my face, and I’ll never get to sing anywhere but the bowling alley on karaoke night again.”

Even though Monty said he’d screw my life over so badly I’d never even sing there again. Not singing isn’t an option. This is my life. My passion. Everything I have left in this world that truly matters. And because of that, I have to be smart.

“Lay it all out there when you go meet him,” Tana says. “See what he says. He’s already gone this far, so I doubt he’ll argue too much. He’s the one who’ll look like an idiot if this stunt of his doesn’t work. I think you’ve got leverage; you might as well use it.”

I think about her point. Leverage. That’s something I’ve never really had before. But still, the idea of marrying a guy I’ve met once? It’s insane. Certifiable. Almost as insane as the label thinking I should get engaged to JC.