RYAN
“Pippa, wait!”
Cat’s voice rings with confusion, but she rushes down the hall after her friend without hesitation.
My instincts roar at me to do the same. To chase after Pippa and beg for forgiveness, tell her that I want her, kiss her hard and show her that she’smine.
Instead, I stay leaning against the hallway wall. There’s nothing more for me to say. There’s only one kind of relationship Pippa and I could possibly have—a secret one. A physical one. So yeah, I’m selfish enough to ask her to break up with Jacob.
But I’m not so selfish that I’d tell her how much I cared when it would only be leading her on. I’ve hurt her enough already.
Across from me, James’s face is inscrutable, the usual scowl carved into his features. I used to think that meant he was pissed at me, but over time, I realized that’s just his natural expression. Resting furious face.
Right now, though, he’d have every reason to be pissed at me. A gigantic party he spent millions of dollars on is raging toward its peak, and poor James is stuck here alone with me.
“I know,” I mutter. “I’m fucking up everything. Go back to the party. It’s not your job to make me feel better about it.”
“Come with me,” James says finally. He tilts his head down the hallway, a silent order for me to follow him. I do, because it’s not like there’s anyone else who wants to be around me right now.
We reenter the party just in time to hear the crowd roar, “Happy New Year!”
Gold and silver confetti rains from the ceiling. Couples all around us snuggle close together and kiss, while single guests blow horns and top off each other’s champagne with foaming bottles. The people who know the words join in on singing “Auld Lang Syne” as servers disperse through the crowd, handing out chocolate cupcakes with blinding sparklers stuck in them.
I scowl at everyone. Fuck the universe for making everyone so goddamn happy when I just want to punch someone.
“James, hey!” A gorgeous, high-cheekboned woman with her hair in Bantu knots grabs James by the lapel. She leans into him, smiling up at him with the confidence of a woman who doesn’t get told no.
“Hello, Michelle,” James says with a nod. My jaw drops as I realize this isMichelle Baxter, the star of Sequel’s most successful action series, not to mention the star of every straight man’s spank bank across the globe.
“So, did you get your New Year’s kiss yet?” she says, batting her eyes at him.
“I have to get going.” James’s voice is polite, but dismissive. “Enjoy the party.”
He pulls out of her grasp, striding through the party as she gapes after him. I shoot her an apologetic smile.
“I’m a big fan,” I tell her quickly before chasing after James again. He moves easily through the crowd, like people rearrange themselves just for him. I have to shove through guests to keepup with him, and I probably would have lost him in the crowd if he didn’t get stopped by some old guy in a tux. They shake hands, and I catch the middle of the dude’s sentence.
“...get the honeymoon started as quickly as possible. The faster there’s an heir, the better.”
A muscle jumps in James’s jaw. “I’d like to meet her first, before it’s all settled.”
“Yes, yes. I’ll arrange it.” The man claps James on the shoulder, and I catch a glimpse of his diamond-studded Piaget watch. “Don’t worry, son. You won’t be disappointed.”
James’s expression looks even grimmer than usual as the guy walks away. My brow furrows. “Dude, what was that all about? Who was that guy?”
“No.” James shakes his head, his voice brokering no argument. “We’re not changing the subject to me right now. Not until you tell me what the hell is going on with you and your sister.”
“Stepsister, man,” I correct him quickly. “Stepsister.”
James gives me a look that says,no shit.“Come on.”
He walks up to a wall, which he presses on. A hidden door, inset into the wall, swings open and my eyes widen.
“Dude, a secret door? Sick.”
James rolls his eyes and gestures for me to go through. The doorway leads to a corridor so narrow, we have to go through it single file. Another door opens, then we’re going down a set of stairs and into the next floor.
We walk through an executive-level waiting room, with plush sofas and expensive-looking art. I let out a low whistle.
