OOPS! MY BOYFRIEND'S BROTHER IS MY ONE NIGHT STAND

THIRD PERSON POV

Three shots of tequila and the banging jazz from the speaker, that’s all it takes to catapult anyone out of reality. And that includes Grace.

She stares down at the last shot in front of her, her eyes glassy, before gulping it in one go.

This wasn’t what New York promised her. Not even close to it.

She wasn’t asking for much,  just to make the top five of the runway modelling competition she’d drained her life savings to attend. She’d practiced nonstop, studied past most contestants, paid for VIP coachings, and even got a recommendation letter from the last training center she applied with. She could’ve sworn the second spot had her name on it.

But no. She didn’t even reach the top ten. Absolutely nothing.

Now she’s broke, tipsy, and stuck in a city that doesn’t care who she is.

When the room starts spinning, she figures maybe it’s time to make her next bad decision. She spots a cluster of rich-looking men lounging at a corner of the club. Perfect targets.

After all, this isn’t Denver anymore. This is New York. Different faces. Bigger wallets. And if she plays her cards right, maybe one of them will help her survive until tomorrow.

She pushes herself up from the bar stool, wobbling as the floor tilts under her. The center of the club calls to her, flashing neon lights, half-naked strippers twirling around poles like their lives depend on it. 

It’s a perfect spot for Grace.

“Dancing can’t be that different from modelling,” she mutters, straightening her below-the-knee dress. “Just with a little more… twirling.”

“Here I come, New York!” she shouts, though her voice disappears under the pounding bass. Not that she notices, she’s too drunk to care.

Every step feels like climbing Mount Kilimanjaro in heels. She stretches out a hand toward the stripper’s pole, but instead of metal, her palm lands on something warm and solid.

Someone’s…. Chest?

Her gaze drags upward, slow and still hazy, until she meets eyes so sharp and icy-blue they could cut through her hangover.

The man doesn’t flinch. He just stares like he’d been watching her the whole time, waiting for her to stumble right into him.

Grace blinks, swaying slightly. He’s so damn hot, her brain manages to whisper.

Thick, dark curls. Jaw sharp enough to slice her throat. A quiet kind of danger wrapped in a suit that probably costs more than her flight ticket.

Or maybe that’s just the tequila taking over her mind, because right now, everything in the club looks dazzling to her… Especially him.

“Are you from here?”

The man leans forward, his deep voice cutting through the music, low but close enough that it rumbles in her right ear.

Grace stiffens. That voice… She blinks and turns slightly, her eyes straining to focus, that's when her stomach drops.

It’s him. Again? The same guy from the train station.

Did he follow me here?

She hadn’t seen his face clearly back then, but now, up close, there’s no mistaking it. Same build. Same air of control that makes her pulse jump for all the wrong reasons. The guy wouldn't stop staring at her inside the train and now he's here again.

he waited for Grace to answer but her throat tightens, every nerve in her body suddenly on alert.

Don’t panic, Grace. Just move and don't fucking look back.

Without a word, she spins on her heel, wobbling slightly, aiming for the counter where she left her phone and purse. Her heart thuds with each step she takes.

She half expects to feel his hand grab her arm, but it doesn’t happen.

The man doesn’t stop her. And that’s a relief.

Still, she doesn’t dare look back to see if he’s following.

When she reaches the counter, her purse is gone.

Like, freaking gone.

And so, apparently, is her brain, because she just stands there, frozen, her brain circuits fried.

“Where the hell is my purse? I dropped it right here—”

“Are you looking for this?”

That same voice cuts in behind her. 

F*ck. He followed me.

She spins around and there he is, holding her purse up like a trophy.

“Seriously?” she snaps. “Who the hell are you? A stalker? Or a pervert? I know your type. You steal women’s stuff, act all nice, gain their trust, then…” her voice shakes, “...rape and kill them!”

He just stares at her, his brows furrowing slightly, then laughs. A low, disbelieving sound.

“Wow,” he says, smirking. “Someone’s been watching way too many crime shows.”

She opens her mouth to fire back, but he cuts in, his voice steady but edged with irritation.

“So, you think I’m stalking you because I saved your ass? I don’t know if you’re new here or just—” he pauses, choosing his words, “—a little careless. But no one leaves their stuff lying around and expects it to still be there. Not in JAM.”

Oh, yeah. I forgot how the city is. 

“Well, how would you even know I dropped it if you weren’t stalking me?” she shoots back. “Everyone else here is drunk or grinding to bad music, and you’re the only one acting all… alert.”

“The least you could say is thank you, young lady…”

“Excuse me?” Grace snaps, her eyes blazing. “Don’t you dare young-lady me. You’re not even old yourself.”

Before he can reply, she snatches her purse out of his hand. “You know what? I don’t have time for you rich folks and your fake politeness. I’ll deal with this myself. I don’t need you, so just back off!”

The words come out louder than she meant. Angry, and sharp, dripping with all the frustration she’s been holding since she stepped foot inside the club.

And the worst part? She knows he doesn’t deserve it. He actually helped her. But his arrogance, his calm little smirk, it only made her feel smaller.

So she storms out of the club like a broken bottle about to burst, her legs staggering a little but she didn't care so much.

Outside, the city greets her with a downpour. Heavy, relentless rain soaks her within seconds. It was too loud and maybe warm inside to figure it was raining outside.

Frustration sank into her bones again. “Oh, great!” she yells to the sky. “What the hell is wrong with today?!”

Her hair sticks to her cheeks, her mascara runs, and her heels slip on the wet pavement. Denver feels a thousand miles away, and it practically is. Five hours, if she could even find a ride back. Which she can’t. Not when it's raining like it would take forever to stop.

Her stomach twists as she thinks of her grandmother waiting up, probably worried sick already. She digs into her purse for her phone, her fingers shaking slightly.

After one call there was no answer.

“Perfect,” she mutters to herself bitterly. “Just perfect. Grace, you’re officially the dumbest girl on the planet.”

She stands there in the rain for a full minute, shivering, debating if she wants to go back in. Then finally—ugh!—she kicks off her heels with a frustrated groan.

The ground is cold, gritty beneath her feet. But what’s worse than being drenched and barefoot? Swallowing her pride isn't one of the options her brain listed.

But… Yet she does it anyway.

When she walks back inside, Mr. Nice is exactly where she left him leaning by the counter, his phone to his ear, his voice low and serious, maybe arguing with someone.

Grace hesitates, then does something she never thought she’d do: she waits patiently like an idiot. 

When he's done, he doesn’t look at her once. He just ends his call, drops a few bills and tips on the counter, and starts walking out like she’s invisible.

Still… she follows him quietly, awkwardly, like a puppy that's lost and doesn’t know what else to do.

He halts halfway down the driveway, his long strides cutting short as he spins around to face her.

“Is it your turn to stalk me now?” His voice is clipped, like he's straining himself from getting mad. “Because I really don’t get why you’re following me.”

Grace freezes under his gaze. He’s taller up close, his coat slick with rain, and his blue eyes glint like ice under the streetlights.

“I know I was wrong earlier,” she stammers, hugging her purse to her chest like it's her only lifeline. “I’m sorry but… can I like—get a ride?”

He raises a brow. “No, you can’t. And stop following me like a lost cat.”

Then he turns away, just like that without any hesitation or even glancing back. 

Grace bites her lip, her wet hair clinging to her face as she takes a few hurried steps after him. “Please! I swear it’s just to the next stop,” she blurts out. “I won’t bother you anymore, and besides…”

Her voice trails off, partly because she doesn’t even know what comes after “besides.”

He stops again, not turning this time. She can’t see his face, but his shoulders rise and fall like he’s debating whether to throw her into the nearest cab or just keep walking.

And for the first time tonight, Grace realizes how utterly ridiculous she must look barefoot, soaked, begging a stranger who clearly has zero patience for her.

Still, she stands there, because ridiculous or not, this is her last chance.

Finally, he exhales sharply, running a hand through his wet hair. “You’re really not going to quit, are you?”

Grace shakes her head, teeth chattering. “Nope. Sorry.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw before he turns slightly, his eyes meeting hers again, this time hard, with something unreadable.

“Fine,” he says. “But if you get in my car, you play by my rules.”

Her pulse jumps, though she has no idea what his “rules” even mean and something about those eyes weren’t the same from earlier. At least, not the nice guy that approached her before.

He opens the passenger door, and something about the way he looks at her again says she just stepped into a different kind of trouble.