Rochelle grins, fanning herself dramatically. “Silas looks like he knows exactly how to ruin your night in the best way possible. And Cal…” Her smile curves wickedly. “Cal looks like the kind of man who would ruin your life and make you say thank you for it.”
Laughter breaks out, sharp and breathless.
“God, right?” Madison sighs. “That stare. The kind that makes you feel like he’s reading your thoughts and undressing your conscience at the same time.”
“What about Jace?” Jen says. “He’s too serious. He looks like he’d break you in half.”
“Not in a good way,” Madison says. “In a‘you’ll never find the body’way.”
The laughter is bright and mean and fleeting.
“Parker,” Jen calls, eyebrows raised, “you grew up with them. Any advice?”
“I already asked her,” Rochelle laughs. “She’s no help. Total vault.”
The words land harder than they should. My smile stays, even though something tightens behind it. “She’s right. You’ll have to figure them out on your own. I can’t help you there.”
It’s not a lie. I don’t know who they are anymore. The boys I grew up with became men who built an empire out of smoke and saltwater. Dangerous. Untouchable. The kind of men other women whisper about but don’t approach unless they want to burn.
What do I know about getting their attention? Nothing.
Except for the way Jace looked at me last night, voice low and rough:Little Parker’s all grown up now.
Except for Silas’s hand at my elbow, the rasp of his voice against my skin.
Except that I haven’t even seen Cal up close yet, and I’m already remembering the way he used to tilt his head when he wanted to read you like code.
I’m so screwed.
Rochelle claps, her voice cutting through the fog of sweat and laughter. “Alright, ladies—hair, makeup, costumes. Be back at seven. Let’s make them remember us.”
Cheers rise. Music fades. The mirrors are empty.
I grab the garment bag from the corner and try not to think about what’s inside. It’s less costume, more lingerie—sparkling, red, and barely-there. The thought of walking out on that stage, of them watching me in it, sends a slow pulse through my veins.
Let them look. Let them see who I am now. Let them deal with it.
The elevator hums on the ride up, cool air washing over overheated skin. My reflection in the brass doors looks flushed and wild—hair falling in loose curls, top clinging, cheeks stained pink. I smell like salt, perfume, and adrenaline.
All I want is a shower. Or better, a bath.
A long soak in steaming water until the heat wrings me out and silence takes whatever’s left.
The hallway greets me with quiet, thick carpet, air-freshener crispness, and the muted hum of central air. My body aches as I dig for the key card. Click. Green light.
The suite is sunlight and serenity. Whitewashed walls. Blue accents that mimic the sea. The faint hum of the harbor below, gulls calling somewhere in the distance. It’s the kind of room that’s meant for resting—somewhere I could finally stop performing.
And then I see him.
Callum Voss.
Sitting in the armchair by the window like he’s been waiting.
He looks out of place and perfectly at home all at once. One leg crossed over the other, ankle resting on a knee. Dark jeans that fit too well, a black henley rolled up to his elbows. His forearms are tanned and veined, hands loose, confident. His sandy blond hair falls in waves that brush his collar, and the afternoon light sharpens the amber in his eyes until they look like molten glass.
He’s beautiful in the way storms are beautiful.
And he’s holding one of my toys.
