When I open my eyes again, he’s closer, though still separated by a sea of dancing bodies. The cap shadows his face, but I feel the weight of his attention like a physical touch. The anger rises again, sharp and bitter on my tongue. How dare he be here, in my chosen escape? How dare he look at me with concern after years of silence? Because he may have come home, but he never came back to me. We were meant to be friends. I guess we weren't.
But beneath the anger, beneath the grief and whiskey and pounding bass, something else pulses in time with the music.Something that reminds me of summer evenings and laughter. Something that’s been there since before Jackson’s death, before fame and fortune took him away.
He takes another step forward, and the movement breaks whatever spell holds me in place. My feet carry me forward before my brain can object, moving through the press of bodies like water finding its path downstream.
The music shifts into something slower, heavier with bass, as I reach him. Up close, his height advantage is more pronounced, forcing me to tilt my head slightly to meet his gray eyes beneath the cap’s brim. Neither of us speaks. Instead, we let the music fill the space between us.
His hand finds my hip with careful intent, and the touch burns through my shirt like a brand. The anger that drove me forward melts into something else entirely as we begin to move together, letting the rhythm guide us. Each point of contact sends electricity through my system as his fingers splay against my waist, his thigh brushes mine, and his breath is warm against my temple.
I should feel guilty for wanting this, for letting attraction override grief and anger, but the alcohol in my blood makes everything simmer instead of burn.
“I want you,” he murmurs against my ear, his voice rough with something more than just club noise. The words vibrate through me, settling low in my stomach. His fingers tighten on my hip, pulling me closer until our bodies align from chest to knee.
My response gets lost in the music, but he must read something in my eyes because suddenly we’re moving through the crowd, his hand wrapped around mine like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. The emergency exit appears through the press of bodies, and then cold air hits my face as we stumble into the alley behind the club.
Brick scrapes against my back as Bastian crowds me against the wall, his hands bracketing my head, his body a solid wall of heat against the night’s chill. For a moment, we just breathe, sharing air in the narrow space between us, the music now a muffled heartbeat through the metal door.
“I need you so badly,” he rasps, and the raw honesty in his voice undoes something in my chest. His cap falls from his head as he leans in, his intention clear in the way his gaze drops to my mouth. Five years of grief and anger dissolve in the space between one heartbeat and the next as his lips brush mine.
The kiss tastes like whiskey and want, like summer evenings and winter storms. My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as years of attraction ignite under my skin. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, and I open for him, letting everything else fall away.
His thigh presses between mine as the kiss deepens, and I arch into the contact, seeking more contact, more heat, more of everything he’s offering. His hands slide from the wall to my waist, fingers finding skin where my shirt has ridden up. Each touch feels like a question and an answer, like salvation and damnation wrapped in one desperate moment.
The sharp click of radio static shatters our bubble.
“Mr. Hall?” A voice cuts through the night, professional and firm.
Bastian tears himself away, chest heaving, as two suited figures materialize from the shadows. Their earpieces glint in the security light, marking them as part of his entourage rather than club security. One moves to Bastian’s side while the other steps between us, creating distance where moments ago there was none.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I watch, still pressed against the brick wall, as they guide him toward the mouth of the alley where I see a black SUVwaiting. The second guard remains, his bulk blocking any attempt to follow, though his expression holds more sympathy than threat.
The SUV’s door closes with a sound like finality, its taillights disappearing into Burlington’s night, leaving me with brick dust on my jacket and the ghost of Bastian’s touch on my skin.
The memory releases me back into my bedroom, leaving my skin burning with phantom touches from seven years ago.
I move to the edge of my bed, letting the cool air from the cracked window chase away the last traces of Burlington’s back alley. But my body remembers—god, does it remember—every point of contact, every touch, every moment of connection before reality intervened. The ghost of his hands on my hips heightened with today’s closeness in his studio and at the dinner table.
I sweep a hand through my hair, my defenses crumbling as understanding floods in. This thing between Bastian and me was never just about Jackson’s death or local rivalry. The electricity that crackles between us is seven years of unfinished business.
But with Finn’s plans to host the Christmas Festival here, I know I’m going to have to fight Bastian or work with him. I just don’t know which option is worse.
13
BASTIAN
The band starts a new song,and I add a notch on my mental board. This would be a cool game if I hadn’t noticed the not-so-discreet glances between my bandmates. The only ones not engaging are Finn and Fox.
Finn is glued to his phone, probably already planning the Christmas Festival move, even though it hasn’t been officially decided.
And Fox? He’s quieter than usual. It’s like he’s with us, but he’s not really here.
Stone breaks first. “So…” He draws out the word until it has three syllables. “Are we going to talk about how you and Taylen were practically setting the table on fire with those looks?”
It took them three and a half songs. They must be getting old.
I keep my eyes fixed on my ginger ale, watching bubbles rise to the surface. “There were no looks.”
