Because with West, it’s always been like this. Electric. Overwhelming. Impossible to ignore.
And it terrifies me.
I exhale slowly, trying to steady my breathing, trying to shove the memory and the feelings back where they belong. Before they get any ideas.
The rest of the models finish their walks, each one showcasing designs that capture bits of the guys—their energy, their style, their personalities. But none of them hit me in the gut like the second one.
Even when the models all come back out for their scores, I can barely bring myself to look at her. Every time I try, all I see is that night in the rain—when everything felt possible, when the world seemed endless, and I thought I had all the time in the world with West.
We score each model, the process blurring past me in a haze. Before I know it, the filming for episode four wraps, andthe usual post-shoot chaos descends. Assistants dart around, Shelley barks last-minute instructions, and the models chatter excitedly as they head backstage.
Shelley strides over to the judges’ table, her laptop tucked under her arm and her heels clicking loudly against the floor. “The reservation is set for your date tonight,” she says with her usual brisk efficiency.
I lean back in my chair, looking up at her, my thoughts spinning. After what happened with Jake last night, I’m not sure I can keep up the whole fake dating thing with the guys. Not when every interaction feels too real, too close to the edge of something I can’t control.
Instead of answering, I deflect. “I ran into Owen at the coffee shop earlier,” I say, my voice steady despite the mess in my head. “The paparazzi were there.”
Shelley’s expression doesn’t falter, but her brows lift slightly. “Owen?” she asks, her tone carefully neutral.
I nod, gripping my pen tighter than necessary. “Yep. And of course, the cameras caught it. So… that’ll be fun when it hits the tabloids.”
Her lips press into a thin line, her laptop shifting under her arm. “Well,” she says after a beat, “let’s hope it doesn’t overshadow the storyline we’re working on.”
I give her a tight smile, but my stomach churns. She’s thinking about the narrative, theshow,while I’m sitting here trying to sort out my tangled feelings about the guys—and now Owen, of all people, has decided to pop back up to test it all.
Shelley glances at her watch and straightens. “Your car will be here in an hour. Make sure you’re ready.”
She strides off before I can say anything else, leaving me sitting there with my thoughts. I stare at the now-empty runway, the memory of West’s gaze still burning in my mind. And nowI’ll have to spend an entire evening with him, pretending I didn’t take a trip to the past.
The sleek blackcar pulls up to the curb in front of the restaurant, the low thrum of the engine barely audible over the city’s hum. I glance out the window at the glowing facade of the building, its gilded entrance practically oozing opulence. Of course Shelley pickedthisplace. The kind of restaurant where the chandeliers probably cost more than my car and the wine list is in a different language.
Beside me, West sits quietly, his gaze fixed on the window, his reflection blurred against the glass. I’m used to seeing him in his usual uniform—jeans, a T-shirt, maybe a leather jacket if he’s feeling formal. But tonight? Tonight he’s…
God.
He’s wearing a tailored black suit, the kind that fits just right, highlighting his broad shoulders and lean frame. The open collar of his white shirt shows just enough skin to remind me he’s still the West I know—rough around the edges, even when he’s polished.
And it’s doing things to me I wish it wouldn’t.
The car slows to a stop, and the driver steps out to open my door. But before he can reach it, West is already there. He moves with an easy confidence, his hand reaching for mine.
“Let me help you,” he says, his voice low and smooth.
I hesitate for a fraction of a second, my pulse skipping as I slip my hand into his. His grip is warm, steady, and the way his fingers curl around mine sends a flicker of heat racing up my arm.
As I step out, the hem of my dress brushing against his shoes, my eyes meet his for the briefest moment. There’s something there—something I can’t name but feel all the same.
“Thanks,” I murmur, my voice quieter than I intended.
He releases my hand slowly, his gaze lingering for a beat longer before he steps back, gesturing toward the entrance. “Shall we?”
We walk toward the doors, the tension between us palpable. It’s not the first time I’ve felt it—not by a long shot—but tonight, it feels heavier, like it’s just waiting for a reason to snap.
As we step into the restaurant, I glance around, taking in the towering crystal chandeliers and the impeccably dressed waitstaff moving through the room like dancers in a well-rehearsed ballet.
“This place is… a lot,” I say, trying to break the silence.
West chuckles lightly, his lips pulling into a half-smile. “It’s definitely not a dive bar, that’s for sure.”
