The car slows as we near the Stratmore Pavilion, a glass-and-granite landmark tucked just off the Arts District. Spotlights sweep across the façade, catching on the crystal fixtures that glitter like stardust above the main entrance.
The driver pulls up and valets in black tuxedos open our doors. Joy and I step out and into a crowd of guests in evening gowns and sharp suits making their way up the front steps, their laughter and camera flashes echoing into the warm summer air.
Suddenly, I feel like my dress is too tight.
Joy straightens her neckline. “You ready for this?”
“Not even a little,” I admit, but I smile anyway. “But I’ve got backup. And slightly better shoes than last time.”
“Speaking of backup—”
Marcos meets us at the bottom of the steps, all charm in a navy suit that probably cost more than my rent. He spins Joy once, grinning like they’ve been doing this their whole lives, but they still call themselves just friends. The kind who share inside jokes and pretend they’re not perfect together.
Then he turns to me and offers a hand. “You two are dressed to kill—and I’m pretty sure one of you might actually do it.”
“Don’t forget it,” I tease.
“Billy.” The name hits like a tremor. I turn—and there he is.
Ben. Tuxedo. Five o’clock shadow. That dangerous, crooked smile that hasn’t stopped giving me heart palpitations since we first locked horns in the museum not even a block away. His eyes sweep over me in a way that makes me feel seen. Beautiful. Worthy.
He takes my hand and spins me slowly. “You’re stunning.”
The dress I chose tonight clings in all the right places. Black silk, low back, high slit, and just enough elegance to make me feel a little invincible. Like I’ll be able to pull this off tonight.
Then Ben kisses me, soft and certain, and suddenly I’m wondering why we’re not back on my couch watchingSurvivorand arguing over tribal alliances.
“We’ll meet you inside,” Joy calls as she and Marcos disappear into the crowd.
Ben pulls me aside to a quiet corner near a hedge-lined path. The music is muffled here, the air warm and honey-sweet with night-blooming jasmine. “Did you get it?”
I grip my clutch tighter, nerves thrumming. “It came an hour ago.”
His hands brush down my arms, steadying me. “What did it say?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I wanted to wait. I wanted to open it with you.”
Ben’s whole expression softens, and I know I made the right choice.
“You ready?”
“I don’t know.” My heart is pounding. I haven’t wanted to think about this email or the results or what it might mean for me and my future. “It feels like there’s a hoedown happening in my stomach.”
“A what?”
“My nerves are line dancing all over my stomach. ‘Cotton-Eyed Joe’kind of energy.”
He laughs, then tips my chin up so I meet his eyes. “Billy, you helped take down a crime boss. Wrestled his sleazy lawyer. Whatever that email says, it doesn’t define you or your future. But I have every hope you’re going to have the future you deserve.”
I pull out my phone, fingers shaking. I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea to take the LSAT two weeks after everything that happened. But I was already registered before I knew I was going to be involved in an international anti-terrorism mission. And Ben helped me study. In between kissing breaks, which—honestly—were a better reward system than anything Kaplan ever designed.
I breathe. Click the link. Find my name. Click again. I stare.
Ben shifts beside me. “Well?”
“I passed.” The words come out on a stunned whisper. “I actually passed.”
“Of course you did.” He pulls me into a hug, lifts me right off the ground, then peppers kiss after kiss along my jaw, my cheek, until he finally meets my lips.
