It’s fear.
Fear that for once, someone else might win.
And Asher sees it too. His knowing grin deepens as if he’s just found his new favorite game.
Step right up ladies and gentleman. Welcome to my mother fucking circus.
CHAPTER 13
YOU WIN. I WANT YOU.
NOLAN
Rishi was alreadydeep in flirtation mode—schmoozing a band of women by the glass railing as though he’s casting the next season ofThe Bachelor: Penthouse Edition.
I’d lost track of how many times he’d tried to loop me in, throwing out introductions. So far, he’s attempted to get me hooked up with at least two of them.
But my eyes aren’t on any of them.
They’re on someone else entirely.
Jackson, ever the smug little shit, had plenty to say before I sent him packing. He paused on his way out just long enough to toss over his shoulder, “So let me get this straight—you let her steal your pitch, and now you’re just… standing here, brooding over her?”
I ignored him.
Didn’t stop him from doubling down on his way out. “Damn, man. First Chloe, now this. You just gonna keep handing your shit over to people?”
That one nearly earned him a fist to the dick. I let it slide. Barely. Because…public.
And yeah, he’s not wrong. Here I am, doing exactly what he accused me of—watching a woman I have absolutely no business watching. Especially after she hijacked my moment with Asher Cross.
Rorie Adams.
She’s dancing like the night was built for her, wild, radiant. She’s in her element, hair flying, satin midnight-colored dress catching the light like it’s being paid to. She twirls under Jeremy’s arm, all teeth and laughter. This woman burns too bright and love it.
And I’m not the only one.
They’re lining up, buzzards in tuxes. One douchebag in particular swoops in like he invented charm, palm sliding too confidently across her waist, fingers suspended in that narrow space between flirtation and a harassment charge.
Another leans in—too close—the guy adjusts his cufflinks more than he listens, whispering words that make her throw her head back in a laugh that lands like a punch to my gut.
She’s working the room.
And I’m standing here, watching like a man who forgot how to move.
She laughs again. That laugh is a fucking weapon. Dazzling. Completely unearned by that guy. And a fucking problem. Because it makes my chest twist in ways I don’t appreciate.
I should be halfway across the city, licking my wounds and pretending this night never happened.
But instead, I’m still here. Leaning against this balcony. Watching her.
Those glacial blue eyes flick up.
Right at me.
It’s fast. A glance that barely lasts half a breath. Still hits like a body shot. Direct. Sharp. Right to the cock.
She knows I’m watching. Shelikesit.
