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He lifts my hand and presses his mouth against my knuckles.

“Ready?” He checks his gold watch.

I take a breath. “Not even a little.”

“Good.” He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “That makes two of us.”

I've been to Ignite Arena before.

I've watched hockey games here. I've stood in the family section wearing Bishop’s jersey and eaten overpriced pretzels while thousands of people screamed at men chasing a little black puck.

But I've never seen it like this.

The ice is completely covered, transformed into an enormous event space beneath the arena's soaring ceiling. Round tables draped in black fabric fill the floor, with simple arrangements of flickering candles as centerpieces. Emerald light washes over the walls, while strands of tiny white lights hang overhead.

Green, black, and white balloons frame a photo area near the entrance, where the Phoenix Foundation's logo stands out against an emerald backdrop. Above us, the massive arena screens display the same black phoenix emblem.

A dance floor sits near one end of the space, with a DJ booth and a small stage nearby. Along the far wall, silent auction displays hold everything from signed jerseys and hockey sticks to weekend getaways and experiences I can't imagine having enough money to bid on.

It's elegant without being overdone. And everywhere I turn, there's something else to take in. The air smells faintly of fresh flowers, expensive perfume, and whatever delicious thing is coming from the catering area. Instead of skates cutting across ice and fans pounding against the glass, there's the low hum of conversation, laughter, and the occasional chime of glasses. A string quartet plays near the entrance.

“Wow.” My eyes dance around the room.

Bishop leans closer. “Wait until you see the auction.”

“Why?”

“Rich people get competitive.

I laugh. “Aren’t you rich?”

“Sure, I guess.” He shrugs. “But I’m still me.”

And when I think about it, I realize he's right. He’s more polished, sure. Has a nice SUV and an amazing penthouse, but he’s still the Hayes Bishop I remember.

He places a hand at the small of my back, guiding me farther into the room like it’s a perfectly normal gesture. Except nothing about his hand touching me feels normal anymore, not after Wednesday night.

Or the way he's kissed me in the kitchen twice since then.

Or the fact that I've spent the last three days wondering what happens next.

Because we haven't talked about it. Not really.

We've kissed. We've flirted. We've spent an unreasonable amount of time finding excuses to stand too close. But neither of us has mentioned my brother. Or what any of this means.

And now I'm at a gala on Bishop's arm, wearing a dress I spent more money on than I care to admit.

My life has officially become a romance novel—one with a very questionable plot.

“Okay,” Bishop says, glancing toward a group of players gathering near the entrance. “I've gotta go earn my keep.”

I look up at him. “Already?”

“Foundation rules. First hour, we serve drinks and appetizers, take pictures, pretend we know which fork goes with which course.”

“You don't?”

“Becks, I eat most of my meals out of a takeout container.”