I look… steady.
“Okay,” I say, stepping back into the bedroom. “Game plan. I am going to this event. I am going to be professional. I am not going to get flustered by Bryce or his stupid jawline. I am going to prove to my dad and the entire front office that I belong here.”
“Atta girl,” Shari says. “Channel your inner ice queen. No feelings. Only spreadsheets.”
“Exactly.”
“And text me updates,” she adds. “Preferably ones involving his abs.”
“I am hanging up now.”
She laughs and waves. “Have fun storming the castle, babe. And remember, if he’s mean, picture him trying to put a fitted sheet on a bed. Nobody looks cool doing that.”
I end the call and the apartment falls quiet again.
The silence is not as heavy as I thought it would be.
I set my phone on the dresser and glance around. Half-finished unpacking projects stare back at me, but for the first time, I don’t feel like I am living in a temporary holding cell. I open the sliding door to the tiny balcony and step outside for a second.
The Nashville evening is cool and hazy, the sky streaked with orange and pink. I can hear faint music from some distant bar, a guitar riff drifting on the breeze like the city is daring me to forgive it.
“Not yet,” I tell it under my breath.
I go back inside, grab my small black clutch, lip gloss, and the folded PR plan I drafted this afternoon. There are bullet points. There is a timeline. There are contingency strategies for when Bryce inevitably ignores my instructions.
I stare at his name on the top of the page.
Bryce Blackhorn.
Winger. Headache. Human grenade with a great body.
He is the exact opposite of what I need.
Which means the universe has obviously made him my job.
My phone buzzes on the dresser.
A text from an unknown number.
UNKNOWN:Try not to be late, Princess. Cameras like me more than they like you.
I stare at it for three full seconds.
Then I type back before I can stop myself.
ME:If you get yourself fined before dessert is served, I am sending you the invoice.
The reply is instant.
BRYCE:Knew you were fun.
My pulse jumps.
Not because I like him.
Because he is infuriating.
Absolutely, spectacularly infuriating.
