“One question for you, and I’ll leave it alone,” I murmured, waiting for her to nod before continuing.
“Do you ever catch feelings for anyone?”
She exhaled, the sound almost pained, and her fingers curled into a tight fist in her lap. “I do my best not to,” she admitted, her voice too damn quiet.
Her face changed then, like she wasn’t just giving me an answer, but admitting something to herself, too.
“I can’t afford the distraction of feelings,” she whispered. “My life is one bad decision away from derailing everything I’ve worked toward.”
I hated that.
Hated how fucking sad she looked when she said it.
And then—just like that—she was gone. She slipped out of the car, leaving behind only the faintest trace of her perfume, and I sat there, stuck in my own head, gripping the wheel like it was the only thing keeping me grounded.
She was anti-relationships with a past she locked up tight.
I wanted something real, something permanent.
She refused to get attached.
I was already in too deep.
There was a huge chance I’d end up pissed off, hurt, or tossed out without an explanation.
But I knew one thing for certain.
I had to try.
Because something about Michelle made my mind and body come alive, and I was pretty damn sure she felt the same way.
So yeah.
Game on, Mitch. Game on.
* * *
The rehearsal dinnersetting was perfect—a sunset bleeding into the mountains, casting long shadows over the terrace.
Most people wouldn’t have noticed, but I’d learned to appreciate these moments. Maybe because I spent so many nights in sterile hotels, unfamiliar cities, stadium tunnels that all blurred together. Or maybe because I was terrified one day I’d forget it all, just like my mom was beginning to.
I sipped my Moscow mule and let the thought settle, allowing myself a whole five seconds of peace before Brigham ruined it.
“Dude, you look stoic as shit.” He plopped down beside me, two beers in one hand, a cigar in the other, his grin already loose from alcohol. “Too fancy for a cheap cigar?”
I held up my drink. “I don’t like anything messing with the taste of my cocktail. Not worth it.”
He huffed. “Your loss.” He attempted a smoke ring, failed spectacularly, then waved his cigar at me. “Laugh it up, man. You try.”
“I’m good,” I said, smirking. “You’re entertaining enough.”
Brigham rolled his eyes, but before he could launch into another attempt, a commotion broke out toward the back of the venue. I craned my neck, already on edge.
The flash of green caught my eye first.
Michelle.
My heart kicked up, but not because of the dress—though, damn, the way it clung to her should have been illegal. It was her posture that had me moving. She was bent over, her entire body a shield, her smartwatch flashing as she timed something.
