Jessica laughs, letting him pull her toward the dance floor. “Try not to throw your shoulder out, Carolina.”
“Not a chance,” he drawls, and they disappear into the crush of bodies.
Leo leans against the bar beside me, arms crossed, a grin tugging at his mouth. “She’s sharp,” he says, nodding toward where Jessica disappeared.
“Yeah,” I agree with a half-smile. “Keeps O’Reilly in line. Not easy to do.”
Leo chuckles, shaking his head as Finn leads Jess onto the dance floor. “Guy never misses a chance to rub it in.”
I smirk. “Pretty sure he lives for it.”
“Yeah, well, next time I’m not letting him off that easy.” Leo’s grin is sharp with promise. Then he tilts his head, shifting gears. “How’s the season treating you? You guys are on fire.”
“Top of the division,” I gloat. “But it doesn’t mean much if we don’t keep it going. We’ve got Boston next week. Big stakes.”
Leo nods. He gets it. “Pressure’s good. Makes you sharper.”
“What about you?” I ask. “When’s the next fight?”
“Six weeks.” He rolls his shoulders. “Big one. Title shot’s on the line. Hoping Jessica’s gonna make sure people care.”
“They already do.” And I mean it.
There’s a pause while the music swells, the bass vibrating under our feet. I take a sip of my drink, then glance at him, trying to sound as if it’s an afterthought. “How’s the family? Your parents good?”
“Yeah, they’re good.” He gives me that crooked smile I remember from when we were kids softening his fighter’s edge. “Dad’s still trying to convince me to retire early; Mom’s planning another trip to Portugal. Same old.”
“And your brother?”
“Busy as hell, but he’s fine. Sends me kid videos every other day. And yours? Still spending summers on Fire Island?”
“Without fail. Me too, most of the off-season.” I keep it easy and slide in, “How’s Eden? Haven’t seen her since the wedding.” I don’t ask if she’s seeing someone. I don’t mention last week—the Kiss-Cam blink, the word I typed into her DMs and yanked back.
Leo doesn’t clock the hook. “She’s good. Bad breakup a couple years back hit harder than she let on. But she’s herself again. Working nonstop, still rolling at the gym, talking about opening her own place.”
Pressure clamps under my ribs. Eden, hurt. The thought sits wrong. I drain my drink; it doesn’t touch the memory of green silk in the firelight, or the way it felt to dance with her last summer as if no time had passed.
“Good to hear,” I say nonchalantly. Leo doesn’t press, and I don’t offer more. The music swells again, wrapping around us.
Then I clock her—tall, blonde, moving with purpose. Silver dress catches the light as she threads straight towardme, eyes skimming until they land. The smile is an invitation. A brunette shadows her shoulder. She trips the same wires—hair, height, that self-possessed walk. Close enough to the shape my brain keeps chasing. Polished, fair. My usual distraction. The opposite of me—dark skin, darker moods.
“You boys look like you’re standing around too much,” she purrs, her voice sliding over the bass. Her fingers skim along my forearm, a light, teasing touch that sends a quick jolt of heat up my spine.
She doesn’t wait for my answer, just takes my hand and pulls me into the crush of bodies. The dance floor swallows us—all pulsing bass and strobing lights. She presses into me, moving with the music. She smells of bergamot and champagne, her hands sliding up my chest as she sways her hips against me.
The brunette’s got her arms hooked around Leo’s neck, kissing him without coming up for air. I catch a flash of her dress riding higher with every turn, and Leo’s hands gripping her waist, pulling her closer. They’re lost in their own rhythm, and I can’t help the grin that tugs at my mouth.
My dance partner looks up at me through her lashes, a wicked glint in her eyes. “Come with me,” she whispers against my ear, her lips brushing my skin.
Before I can answer, she tugs me toward the edge of the dance floor. I follow, because why the hell wouldn’t I? We slip into a narrow hallway, the bass still pulsing through the walls, and she pushes open the door to one of the private back rooms.
The lights in here are dim, golden, the air thick with perfume and desire. The door clicks shut, and for a heartbeat, we just stare at each other. Then she’s moving, closing the space between us. Her hands slide up my chest, nails scraping lightly through my shirt.
“I’ve been watching you all night,” she whispers against my throat. I cup her face, thumb tracing her bottom lip before I slide my tongue over it—slow at first, probing, making sure she’s all in. She melts into me, soft and willing, and I lose myself in her sweetness, the way she sighs when I deepen the kiss.
My hands find her waist, pulling her closer until there’s no space left between us. Her back arches, and I press her against the wall, my mouth trailing down the column of her throat. She tastes of champagne and something I’ll regret forgetting.
Outside the thin wall, Leo’s voice carries—low, amused—followed by a brunette’s breath catching. We’ve run this two-lane before: two pros, easy smiles, women choosing the same uncomplicated night we are. No chase, no promises. Clean exits, quiet phones. It’s not new; it’s just what happens when the score’s good and the city says yes.
