Daniel’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed. His brows lift the second he sees me, but he doesn’t say anything—just studies me with that annoyingly perceptive stare.
“Bathroom’s all yours,” I say lightly, brushing past him.
“Luke—”
“Nope,” I cut in, not slowing. “I need a drink. And a new song. And probably someone who’ll tell me I look hot without trying to lecture me.”
He snorts, following me down the hallway. “You always look hot. That’s never been the issue.”
I flash him a smirk over my shoulder. “Exactly. So let me go remind a room full of strangers.”
“Uh-huh.” Daniel’s voice is dry. “And this definitely has nothing to do with a certain six-foot-something emotionally constipated coach watching you like he’s ten seconds from committing a felony.”
“Didn’t notice,” I lie.
Daniel just rolls his eyes. “Right. And I’m a backup dancer for Beyoncé.”
But I’m already moving, already pushing back through the crowd, already grabbing a tequila shot from the bar and tilting it back before the music swallows me whole again.
If I dance hard enough, drink fast enough, flirt bright enough—maybe I won’t feel the gravity of those whiskey-brown eyes still burning a hole through my spine.
Maybe I won’t remember what it felt like when he almost kissed me.
And maybe, if I’m lucky, I won’t care.
THIRTEEN
SILAS
I shouldn’t have gone.
I tell myself that the entire drive back. Over and over, like it’ll undo the image of him pressed up against someone else, laughing like he wasn’t ignoring me.
Or maybe that’s why he looked so free—because hewaspretending I didn’t exist.
I scrub a hand down my face as I step inside my apartment, flicking the light on and locking the door behind me. The place feels too quiet. Too clean. Too empty.
There’s still sweat on my neck, dried tight on my skin from standing there like a fucking statue all night, nursing one drink, watching Luke flirt and dance and burn me alive without even touching me.
And then he left.
On someone else’s arm.
I sit heavily on the couch, elbows on my knees. I shouldn’t care. That was the deal, right? No strings. Just a one-time thing that turned into a locker room mistake. Then another mistake. And now another.
Except it’s not a mistake if I can’t stop wanting it.
I grab my phone.
My finger hesitates over the Prism icon, pulse ticking in my jaw. Then I tap it.
BornforTrouble
I stare at the chat we haven’t used since meeting for our one-night hookup. This is crossing so many lines. Still, I type.
Me: I’m sorry for tonight. I’m sorry for benching you too. You were right, I was being overly cautious.
I stare at the screen, the cursor blinking. That should be it. But I’m not good at stopping when I should. Not with him. Not anymore.
