“Did you enjoy the show?”
I don’t dare look at him. If I do, I’ll forget there’s an audience. “You’re not as reckless as you pretend,” I murmur, smile poised for the crowd, lips barely moving. “But you do like to make a scene.”
He grins, and I feel it more than see it, a flare of boyish arrogance and pure adrenaline. “Do you come with the trophy?”
I risk meeting his eyes, and it’s a mistake, because the whole world narrows to that boyish grin, that reckless joy, the wild energy and fire that dragged me into his bed and hasn’t really let me go since. My carefully arranged composure wobbles, and the smile that slips out is not for the cameras.
“See you tonight?” I hear myself say, the words leaving my mouth before my brain can veto them, as if some hidden, treacherous part of me has already made the choice.
With that, I shake my head and step back, sliding neatly into the role of perfect sponsor’s daughter, even as my heart lodges in my throat.
He bows his head, lifts the trophy, then looks up at me for a fraction too long, his lips quirking in a smile meant only for me. He mouths, “Can’t wait.”
I arch a brow, cool as glass, but my cheeks burn under the wind. I turn and walk away, every muscle strung tight, knowing he’s watching me, feeling the pull of him like a magnet that doesn’t weaken even with a thousand people between us.
As the press swarms him, I let myself dissolve into the crowd, pulse thrumming, every nerve alive with the unfinished conversation we’ve only just begun.
Yes. This is why I came. For the danger. For the spark that refuses to die.
***
The afternoon sun teases my cheeks as I sit at the window in my apartment, pulse fluttering at my throat. I hate myself for the nerves. Not nerves. Anticipation. I haven’t felt butterflies like this since childhood.
It’s not that I doubt he’ll come. I didn’t get an answer to the simple message I sent, but I know he will.
Getting his number was no big deal; he might be a rockstar, but I am a Moreau. We tend to get what we want, as my father likes to remind me.
Figuring out what to write was another story. I wanted to sound casual, not eager, not desperate. All my education in diplomacy, business, and PR turned useless for a message likethis. In the end, I just sent the hotel name and room number. No greeting, no signature, no promise. If he wants what I want, he’ll understand.
He’ll read the message and run to the hotel, phone in hand. No doubt.
But as the minutes drag, I find myself glancing at the door, waiting. Ridiculous. Moreaus don’t wait; the world waits for us.
I saw him at the afterparty, basking in the crowd’s adoration, letting girls blow kisses at him, drinking from the ridiculous giant champagne bottle, letting it foam down his suit like a schoolboy. For a moment, the idea that he might choose the crowd over me, the bed over which I have power, makes me clench my fists with something close to jealousy.
Knock, knock.
“Room service,” Nico’s amused voice comes from behind the door. “I brought refreshment, your highness.”
I open the door. He’s a glorious mess, hair still full of snow, that impossibly tight race suit hugging his thighs, jacket half-zipped, a ridiculous champagne bottle in one hand, phone in the other.
“Had to use Google Maps to find the hotel,” he says, pocketing the phone.
“This the refreshment?” I gesture at the sticky bottle.
“Nope,” he says, stepping inside. “This is.” He reaches into his hood and, with a boyish grin, dumps a handful of snow down my neck.
I gasp, mouth falling open as icy water trickles down my ribs, over my breasts and belly. “You idiot!”
He laughs, setting the bottle on the cabinet, shaking the snow from his jacket and plopping his boots on the carpet.
“Sorry, couldn’t help being funny.”
“Take off your boots,” I order, eyeing the growing puddle on the rug.
”On it.” He kneels, stripping them off. “Though, if you’re in the mood to boss me around, I’d prefer if it were my clothes.”
I’m silent. For once, I don’t know what to say. Heat curls low in my stomach instead.
