I sip my cosmopolitan. Wesley stands beside me, radiating nuclear grade pheromones. His arm is slung low around my waist, his thumb drawing lazy circles over the bare strip of skin above my jeans. Each pass sinks deeper, slower. Possessive. My blood fizzes like champagne, my spine curving toward him before I can think better of it.
I lift my glass to my lips, pretend I’m focused on the drink instead of the crackles of electricity barreling down my spine. He smells of soap, pine, trouble. Every time I look up, he’s watching me—half smile, half dare, all ruin.
We’d gone back to the house after the tree lighting, thawed out over dinner with his family, changed clothes, and spent the entire time pretending that kiss hadn’t short-circuited both of us. Now we’re here, drowning in neon and noise, and he hasn’t taken his palm off my waist for a single second.
This is supposed to be a business arrangement. Two friends helping each other out. He gets to save face and make his ex regret her existence. I get to keep my inheritance, my apartment, and fund a program for the Harlem girls who can’t afford dance classes. Clean. Mutual. Beneficial.
We set rules to keep it that way, to guard the arrangement and keep us from falling in too deep. Rule two, if I remember right, was no sex. Not because I’m a saint or HR approved. But because once we cross that line, walking away stops being math. If I fall for him and it shatters, I don’t just lose twelve million dollars. I lose the only version of my future that actually feels like it’s mine.
So why am I thinking about how his touch would feel if he slid his palm just a little lower? Because this—whatever this is—wasn’t part of the deal.
We’re friends. We work for the same organization. And the one rule—in bold—is: don’t sleep with the players.
Not that Finn and Jessica gave a damn. But Jessica quit afterward.
I take another sip, sweet and sharp. Wesley’s thumb keeps staking his claim. Slow. Deliberate. Dangerous.
I should move, but I won’t. Sue me. His touch feels fucking amazing.
A voice booms through the music, followed by a broad-shouldered man in flannel and a grin too big for his face. “You son of a bitch, you actually came home!”
“Grant.” Wesley grins, clapping him into a hard hug. “Still going strong, huh?”
“Barely. Married a woman who runs the bait shop like it’s NORAD.” Grant tips his head toward the brunette beside him. “You remember Kim?”
The girl grins and smacks Grant’s chest. “Ignore him. He thinks sarcasm’s a love language.”
Wesley’s smile softens. “Kim, yeah. Good to see you.”
Grant’s eyes swing to me, his face lighting up. “And this must be the fiancée. Damn, Kane, you overshot. She’s way too pretty for you.”
I raise my glass. “I hear that a lot.”
Laughter erupts.
Then the rest crash in like a storm—Ryan, Dean, Tyler—all of them familiar to Wesley, all loud, competitive, half drunk, and dragging wives or girlfriends who look both entertained and exasperated. They smell of beer and bonfires and friendship.
“Look at that mug! Still cashing in on that billboard face?”
“Don’t tell me fame made you soft, Kane!”
“And this one’s your fiancée? Jesus, she’s gorgeous.”
Wesley just grins, arm cinched around my waist, his thumb still tracing lazy, possessive circles against my skin. “Hands off,” he warns Dean, smirking. “She bites.”
I sip my drink and murmur, “Only when provoked.”
That earns another round of laughter, loud and rough and affectionate.
Kim elbows me, eyes sparkling. “You dance, city girl?”
“Depends who’s watching,” I tease.
“Perfect. Come on.” She catches my elbow before I can protest. “We need some estrogen out there before the guys start chest-bumping to ‘Sweet Caroline.’”
Two more girls—Amanda and Jo—join in, and suddenly I’m swept toward the center of the dance floor.
The DJ slides into “Head & Heart,” bass vibrating through the floorboards, lights strobing red, gold, white. Kim spins meonce, and then we’re moving—no choreography, no plan. Just rhythm.
