The thing is—I don’t want to let anyone in.
Not after everything with my mom. Not after I’ve spent years building up walls and dressing them like boundaries. Not afterhim.
I’ve perfected the ice queen image. Red carpets. Runways. Designer campaigns. The signature Johanna Harris pose: statuesque, emotionless, untouchable. There’s no room in my world for messy—not when I’ve worked so hard to look polished.
Now the whole gang is gathered at Mia and Grayson’s for what Mia has described as acasual wedding planning hang. We’re just a few weeks away from the big event, and there’s absolutely nothing about this night that’s casual. The seating chart alone is the size of a twin bed, and there are color-coded spreadsheets on the fridge. If they ask me to decorate one more mason jar centerpiece, I’m going to drown myself in Mia’s fancy farm sink.
I should be in Paris. Or Milan. Or even New York.
I have no business calling myself a model anymore—not when I haven’t booked a shoot since Mom got sick, and she’s been gone nearly six months now. My agent keeps calling. I keep ignoring her. I can’t figure out if I’m waiting for permission to start my life again or for everything to just fall apart.
So instead, I’m perched on a bar stool at the kitchen island in four-inch heels and an overpriced top, nursing a glass of champagne I can’t really taste.
Not that I’m bitter.
But there’s a part of me—dark and selfish and sharp—that can’t stop thinking:when is it my turn?
The rest of the crew is outside, drinking and snacking and psyching themselves up for another round of table arrangement warfare. I think I’m alone until a voice cuts through my self-pity spiral.
“Hey.”
I don’t have to turn around to know who it is. I’ve had his voice memorized since the first night I heard it.
I keep my eyes on my champagne flute, not wanting to meet his gaze.
“I don’t want another bacon-wrapped date,” I tell him. “I really hate them.”
He laughs.
I love that sound.
But he doesn’t need to know that.
“I wasn’t offering,” Brandon says. “But noted. No red wine tonight?”
“This night wasn’t worth opening a decent bottle of red for,” I shrug.
He steps up beside me now, brushing softly against my shoulder. It feels like a memory. Or maybe a dare.
It can’t have been a memory. I’ve ruined that. Ruinedhim. Hurt him worse than I’ve hurt anyone ever before. Because of that, I know better. He’ll never come close to me in a real way ever again.
But God, he even smells the same. Cedar, amber, and a little bit of sin. Even time can’t dull that.
“I thought you were working on the new rhythm track at the studio,” I say, finally allowing myself to make eye contact with him.
“Finished it,” he replies, popping open a beer. “It slaps. When I was heading home, Gray texted and said tonight was a seating chart bloodbath. Figured I’d stop by and witness Jake’s forehead vein explode.”
I roll my eyes, but a smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it.
Fucking feelings.
Through the kitchen window, I watch Grayson throw his head back in laughter at something Tony said while Mia whispers something in his ear. Their fingers are still tangled together like they don’t know how to exist apart.
It’s stupid. And annoying. And nauseating.
And beautiful.
“She really did save him,” Brandon says softly from behind me, following my gaze.
