“I guess, but Karson never mentioned it. I just can’t believe he’s there,” I said, reeling at the sight of him halfway across the world, having the time of his life.
“Yeah, I gotta say I didn’t see that coming.” Sass dragged her eyes away from the screen. “Babe, are you alright?”
I gave a small nod, but it was a lie.
Moving on had become my mission. Yet somehow seeing him there, smiling, living his life, looking completely fine, knotted something inside of me.
What he did shouldn’t matter to me anymore.
So why is my stomach dropping to the floor?
26
PENTHOUSE PARTY
KARSON
I ran a towel over my damp skin as the knocking on the hotel-room door grew more insistent.
I hopped toward it, yanking on my faded Armani jeans, with one arm halfway through the sleeve of my fresh white shirt as I flipped the lock open.
Dyson shoved the door open and charged in. “Are you ready?” he asked impatiently, dressed in effortless style in a distressed black shirt and baggy designer jeans.
“Yeah, yeah, give me a sec.” I walked toward the mirror as I ran a comb through my still-damp hair and buttoned up my shirt.
The intercom buzzed, Dyson picked it up and reception announced our driver was downstairs.
“If you’re finished applying your makeup, let’s hustle,” he said, opening the door as I rolled my eyes and suppressed a grin.
We made our way to where the driver waited beside the car. As he drove, we tried to guess who might be at the party, right up until he pulled in beneath the hotel’s porte cochere.
The doorman opened our door and directed us to wait at the VIP entrance.
“Now, that’s what I call style,” Dyson said, tipping his chin toward a group of impeccably dressed guys. “Look and learn, baby. You might pick up some tips.”
I nudged him as the manager verified us, and we took the elevator straight to the penthouse.
As the doors slid open, a euphoric EDM beat hit us. We stopped short at the sight of a massive race car ice sculpture.
For a moment, we just stood there and took in the three-dimensional work of art.
“Now that’s what I call style,” I said, chuckling as Dyson shook his head.
A few familiar faces were scattered throughout the crowd… A famous Australian actress—blonde, radiant, impossible to miss—laughed beside one of the veteran F1 drivers.
An action-movie legend stood nearby, his sleek black tuxedo complimenting his dark hair as he talked animatedly to a young tennis player I’d watched at the US Open. The actor swept an arm through the air, demonstrating a tennis swing before they broke into laughter.
“He looks like he’s already sizing up the building for his next stunt,” I said quietly as I leaned closer to Dyson.
“Wouldn’t surprise me at all.” We both chuckled.
My eyes swept around the room, taking in the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows, the immense marble staircase winding like a corkscrew to the mezzanine level, and the podiums suspended from the ceiling.
Date palms stretched upward from the floor below, their branches scraping the cathedral-like ceiling above the mezzanine. Waitstaff, wearing signature black-and-white uniforms, wove through the room, offering colorful delicacies from every corner of the globe.
My eyes widened as they landed on a world-famous DJ commanding the booth. He had the place electric, the crowd bending and swaying rapturously, fueled by the hypnotic beat reverberating through the immense penthouse.
Dancers with white flowers threaded through their hair—clad in bikinis and thigh-high boots—clung to the podiums suspended from the ceiling. They arched and swayedprecariously as bright streams of light bounced back and forth between them in time to the music.
