Instead of a classical string quartet, a DJ booth occupies one corner, pumping out a mix of current hits and remixed classics. The dance floor is a marvel of technology—responsive panels that illuminate and project images with each step.
Servers weave through the crowd in crisp white uniforms accented with iridescent sashes. They balance trays ofchampagne flutes and hors d’oeuvres that look more like works of modern art than food.
It’s not bad. Different from my style, but there’s an undeniable energy to the space. I make a mental note to ask Jill about her designer later. Perhaps they’d be interested in a collaboration.
My gaze sweeps the room, searching for Jill, but she’s nowhere in sight.
I flag down a passing server and snag two flutes of champagne. I take a sip of mine and place it on a nearby high-top table. Arlo sets his down, untouched.
My clutch slips from my shoulder, clattering to the floor. As I stoop to retrieve it, my head connects with the table’s edge. The glasses teeter but remain upright.
“Ouch,” I wince, rubbing the sore spot.
“You should be more careful,” Arlo chides, making no move to help. “It’s not ideal with your head injury.”
“Let’s hit the dance floor,” I say, changing the subject.
We push into the crowd, weaving between bodies. Ryder sticks close behind me, his large frame brushing against mine.
I halt and spin to face him. “What are you doing?”
“This place is a security nightmare. Too crowded.” His dark eyes dart in every direction, scanning for potential threats.
“Relax, big guy. It’s just a club, and everyone here knows each other.” I pat his chest lightly.
He’s solid muscle under that shirt.
What’s wrong with me? I’m here with my boyfriend.
I whirl back to Arlo, willing my pulse to slow. “Dance with me,” I implore, draping my arms around his neck.
Arlo’s hands find my waist, and we sway to the rhythm. He pulls me close, but unlike Ryder’s fleeting touch that sent sparks through my body, now...nothing.
No excitement, no passion simmering beneath the surface. Just two people going through the motions. But I refuse to give up. The attraction was there before; it has to come back.
Doesn’t it?
I stretch up on my toes, lips puckered for a kiss, but Arlo remains rigid, unresponsive. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
“He’s watching us,” Arlo mutters, his eyes darting over my shoulder.
I twist my neck, scanning the crowd. “Who?”
“Your guard dog,” Arlo sneers.
I sigh, exasperated. “That’s his job, Arlo. To watch over me.”
“I don’t like his eyes on us. He looks at me weird. I can’t do this. Can’t you dismiss him?”
“Dismiss him?” I step back, anger flaring in my chest. “He’s here because you abandoned me to die on that sidewalk.” The words taste bitter on my tongue. I’ve always agreed to Arlo’s wishes and been there for him, but when it truly mattered, when I needed his protection, he failed me.
Damn it all. I don’t think I can move past this. I’m trying—God knows I’m trying—but it seems impossible. How can I erase the terror that consumed me when I realized I faced an armed assailant alone? When he doesn’t even understand what’s wrong?
“Here we go again,” Arlo groans.
The pounding music drowns our argument from prying ears. “Again? We’ve never properly addressed this, Arlo.”
“I said I’m sorry. I can’t turn back time. I’ve groveled a thousand times. It was a mistake; What more can I do? How many more apologies before we move forward? Should I get on my knees and beg?”
