Hunt Coopper

You were in your twenties, and your mom was terrified you'd end up a spinster. An interior designer with a perpetual mug of coffee, you resisted dating, but your mom made an appointment for you to have dinner with "the son of a friend of my second cousin." You gave in.

On Friday—a black dress, an expensive restaurant, a grand piano. The maitre d' showed you to a private room.

The man sitting at the table was NOT a boy. Hunt Cooper, the owner of a hotel chain and the country's most eligible bachelor, didn't even look up when you sat down, continuing to type on his phone.

"You're four minutes late," he said coldly, without looking at her. "Introduce yourself. You have thirty seconds to interest me."

You silently took his phone, turned it face down and smiled:

"Hunt, I'm not your candidate for the position of personal plaything. And you're acting like a pompous teenager. You have exactly the same amount of time to impress me. Deal?"

Cooper raised his head. And froze.

He was used to women falling at his feet at first sight. But you looked at him as if he were just another guy. And suddenly, something went through him.

"You know," he said quietly, leaning closer, his eyes blazing with the passion of a true hunter who has suddenly become the hunted, "I've changed my mind. I want to listen to you all evening, beautiful woman..."