The bartender appears and she turns to him. “Mezcal, por favor. El Enmascarado, si lo tiene.”
He nods and reaches for the top shelf, pulling down the familiar black and gold bottle. The same mezcal we drank in Valle Quieto, in that little bar where everything changed. Brooke catches my eye and smiles.
“Well, in any case, I’m here now,” she says as the bartender pours. “So you can stop looking so lost.”
“I wasn’t looking lost.” I smile at her. “I was surveying the room. Completely different thing.”
“Hmm,” she hums, her eyes bright with amusement. “If you say so, Midnight.”
The bartender sets the mezcal in front of her and she wraps her fingers around the glass, bringing it to her lips, and takes a slow sip. The movement shifts her blazer just enough that the red lace underneath catches the light again, and I lift my whiskey to my mouth just to give myself something to do that isn’t staring.
“Hell of a night,” she says, setting her glass down. Her knee presses against my thigh as she angles toward me, and the contact sends warmth spreading up my leg. “Roman looked incredible in there. That fourth round knockout was surgical. You should be proud.”
“I am.” I turn the whiskey in my hands, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “Still doesn’t feel real, honestly. I keep waiting to wake up and find out the whole thing was a dream. Or a coma. Possibly a really elaborate prank.”
“It happened.” She touches my arm, her fingers warm through the fabric of my sleeve. “You did that, Dominic. You and Roman. And nobody can take it away.”
I turn to look at her. Her hand hasn’t left my arm, and I can feel the heat of her palm burning through to my skin like a brand.
Her long dark hair is straight tonight, hanging smooth on either side of her face, framing those cheekbones, that jaw, those warm brown eyes lined with dark makeup that makes them look even more striking than usual. Sharp wings that make her look like some kind of ancient goddess. Dangerous and beautiful and completely devastating.
She’s so fucking stunning it almost hurts to look at her directly.
Tomorrow I fly back home to Dark River and she flies back to New York City. I have no idea what happens after that. No idea how to navigate the three thousand miles between us or what any of this even means.
But right now, with her hand on my arm and her knee against my thigh and the whole city glittering behind her, none of that matters. The only thing that matters is her.
“Brooke,” I say, glancing out at the party, then back to her face. “Honestly, the only thing I can really think about right now is how much I want to be alone with you.”
She blinks. Her fingers are still against my arm, and she stares at me for a long moment, her lips parted, something flickering behind her eyes that I can’t quite read. Maybe she’s feeling what I’m feeling, this pull between us that’s been building all night, all week, all our lives.
Then a smile spreads across her face, slow and warm and so devastating that I’d probably agree to anything she asked right now. Putty in her hands. I’m completely fucking gone for her, and I don’t even care anymore.
“What room are you in?” she asks.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs. “Fourteen twelve. A few floors down.”
She nods slowly, then drains the rest of her mezcal, her eyes never leaving mine over the rim of the glass. She sets it down with a decisive click and stands, smoothing her blazer. “Let’s go, Midnight. Night’s still young. Might as well make the most of it.”
I take her hand, and something slots into place in my chest at the feel of her fingers lacing through mine. Like they belong there. Like we’ve been doing this for years instead of seconds. She squeezes gently and I squeeze back, and we just look at each other for a moment, standing at the edge of this party while the city spreads out behind us.
We weave through the crowd together, past clusters of promoters and journalists and hangers-on who are too caught up in their own conversations to notice us slipping away. Brooke’s thumb traces absent circles against my palm as we walk, and every brush of her skin against mine makes me want to walk faster. I glance down at her and find her already looking at me, her lips curved in a private smile.
The elevator bank is down a short hallway from the main party area, and the noise fades as we walk, the pounding music becoming a distant pulse. I press the call button and we wait, the muffled thump of the celebration behind us.
The city sprawls out beyond the glass railing, endless and alive, and Brooke shifts closer until her shoulder presses against my arm. Her perfume hits me again, that Tom Ford scent she wears, jasmine and something darker underneath, and it takes everything I have not to pull her against me right here in the hallway.
The elevator dings and the doors slide open. We step inside, turning to face each other as the doors begin to close. Her eyesmeet mine, dark and intent, and every ounce of self-control I’ve been holding onto all night starts to fray at the edges.
The doors slide closer together, the gap narrowing, the party disappearing inch by inch.
Almost closed.
Almost there.
The second they seal shut, I reach for her.
My hands find her waist as her fingers curl into the front of my shirt, pulling me down to her. Our mouths meet somewhere in the middle, and the kiss is nothing like the careful circling we’ve been doing all night.
