He glanced at me. “You think I’d do all this if I thought you’d screw it up?”
I didn’t answer right away.
Because deep down, I wasn’t worried about screwing it up for him.
I was worried about what it meant if I didn’t.
Kieren didn’t look at me right away. His grip on the steering wheel was relaxed, casual. But his voice? Steady in a way that made me feel anything but. “You don’t have to prove anything tonight,” he said. “Just be yourself.”
It was such a simple sentence, so calm, so… not what I expected.
I blinked at him. “That’s either the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, or a trap.”
That earned the smallest smirk from him. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
Before I could fire back, we turned onto the curved driveway leading to the restaurant.
Up ahead, valet attendants in long black coats waited beneath golden heaters, and just beyond them—flashes.
Cameras.
People.
I instinctively straightened my spine.
Kieren shifted into park, unhurried, like he didn’t even notice the chaos waiting outside the windshield. “Ready?” he asked.
“No.”
He just gave me that aggravatingly confident look, the one that said he already knew I’d step out of the car, anyway.
And I did.
As soon as I stood, the cold slapped me in the face. Sharp and dry, January in Michigan had no mercy—even with salted sidewalks and patio torches burning.
But the flash of bulbs came next, snapping like tiny fireworks. I barely had time to react before Kieren’s hand found the small of my back.
Warm.
Firm.
Possessive.
He drew me in with the ease of someone who’d done this before—a slight tilt of his body, a subtle brush of his fingers at my waist, his palm settling like it belonged there. My arm brushed his chest as we walked, close enough to make a show of it, close enough that I could smell his cologne under the crisp winter air. Cedar and heat and something unfair.
Flashes popped. People called his name. I kept my eyes forward and my chin up, heart hammering against my ribs like it wanted out.
We stepped through the heavy glass doors into something out of a magazine.
The restaurant was sleek and low-lit, all modern wood and stone with flickering candles in glass votives. Jazz played quietly beneath the murmur of conversation and clinking silverware.
In the far corner—no surprise—the Storm had taken over.
A cluster of beautiful, loud, glittering people filled two long tables. Expensive watches, flawless teeth, confident laughter that made the whole room feel like it revolved around them.
I knew some of them by face. Others by tabloid drama.
And every single one of them turned to look when we entered.
