Chloe laughs. It’s low. Easy. Dangerous.
And that’s it.
He’s done.
The rest of the night becomes a slow-motion car wreck of Tony trying everything.
Compliments.
Jokes.
Buying drinks.
Leaning just a little too close.
Switching tactics from charming to self-deprecating.
Back to charming again.
Chloe smiles. Engages. Listens.
But she doesn’t budge.
Not once.
She stays polite. Amused. Untouchable.
By the third drink, Tony leans over to me, defeated but impressed.
“Man,” he mutters, watching her laugh at something Chris says instead. “Her friend’s hot… but she won’t crack.”
“Let’s dance,” Sage announces, grabbing my hand.
By the fifth song, we’re all sweaty and half-laughing, half-shouting over the music.
Sage leans toward me. “Bathroom,” she says, nodding down the hall. Chloe follows her a second later, heels clicking as they disappear into the crowd.
And just like that, it’s only us.
The second they’re out of sight?—
Chris slides in beside me like he’s been waiting for clearance.
“I’m calling it,” he says.
I sigh. “Oh no.”
“She’s an escort.”
I don’t even argue this time. “Chris?—”
“No, listen,” he insists, already wound up. “She’s gotta be afucking escort.”
Mark perks up instantly. “We’re doing theories? I’m in.”
“Chloe Christensen?” Chris continues, counting on his fingers like he’s building a legal case. “Come on. That is the fakest cover name I’ve ever heard.”
“That’s the most normal name on earth,” I say.
