And now, the one person I can’t stop thinking about is the last woman I ever should’ve touched.
Funny, considering Mont’s the one who unknowingly dared me to hook up with her, the bombshell next door, a “cure for get-over-a-bitch-itis.”
Fuck. Where were the signs I missed?
Brilliant me assumed theFrankiehe always spoke about was a son.
Clearly, fate’s got a twisted sense of humor, a fat,isn’t-it-ironicmiddle finger aimed right at me.
Maybe I deserve it. Maybe I should’ve stayed the hell away from the start.
When Cami excused herself to the restroom earlier, Mont had leaned in, his tone deliberate and sincere. “Frankie’s my world—all I have left since her mother passed away so manyyears ago,” he’d said, pride bleeding into every word. “I’m happy she’s back home, happy she’s joined the family business. She’s beautiful, I know that. I’m sure you’ve noticed too.” His brows lifted. “And while I might’ve encouraged you to have a fling over the summer with that younger woman, who evidently ghosted you, I’m sure you understand my daughter is completely off-limits.”
I’d managed a tight nod, maybe a forced smile, pretending his words didn’t feel like a slow blade twisting under my ribs. What was I supposed to say?Too late, Mont. I’ve already crossed every line you just drew. Explicitly.
This situation is beyond screwed.
My hand settles at the small of Cami’s back as we weave through the crowd, the low sweep of her backless dress revealing skin that feels like a live wire under my palm. Her signature citrus perfume rises, sweet, addictive, sliding straight into my bloodstream. It’s the same scent that’s haunted my shirts, my sheets,my dreamsfor days.
“Cami,” I bend closer, “are you feeling dizzy or faint?”
She shakes her head, steps never breaking stride. “This has nothing to do with POTS.” Her fingers skim my wrist as we pass a cluster of guests. “And before you ask, I have an appointment with the specialist next week.” She exhales. “I just really need to get out of here.”
“Understood.”
Laughter glitters across the ballroom, violin strings humming, champagne flutes clinking. On the outside, I may look composed, cool-headed, nodding at the passing crowd, but inside, my heartbeat could outplay the tuxedoed orchestra. Every few steps, Cami glances up at me, stormy-blue eyes gleaming, her beautiful lips a taut line, the silence between us loud enough to drown out the entire gala.
As we step out of the ballroom’s glow, Cami tips closer, whispering so close, it skates down my spine. “I lost the bubble phone, Knox. I wanted so badly to call you. Was headed to Vermont tomorrow to hopefully find you through your grandparents.”
“I know. But we can’t do this here.” I inch closer, keeping my tone low, even. “Too many eyes.”
We descend the marble steps in silence, city air cutting through the thread of ragtime music that fades behind us.
The valet stand glows underneath a red awning, sleek cars pulling up one after another. Then mine stops in front of us: a silver Aston Martin Vantage.
“Who even are you right now?” Cami tucks her sequined clutch under her arm, eyes darting between me and the car. “Where’s your Rover?”
I scoff.
Could that be an edge of disbelief in her tone? As though she’s just met another version of me? Well, I’ve just met another version of her, too. Elegantly styled hair. A black strapless, curve-hugging dress. That Saint Laurent under her arm, catching bright city lights. The woman in Crystal Cove who stole my hoodies, kitten cuddles, and heart looks every bit the Manhattan heiress. And God help me, she still feels like home.
Opening the passenger door, I dip in close, her body reacting before the words even land. “Get in the car, Bubble Girl.”
She doesn’t argue. Just exhales, shaky, and slips into the passenger seat, satin and skin whispering against black leather.
I shut the door, its click echoing through my chest like a gavel. By the time I hand the valet my claim ticket, he’s holding the keys, and I slip him a fifty.
“Good night, Mr. Ryder.”
Sliding behind the wheel, I adjust the cuff of my tux jacket, trying for calm that doesn’t exist.
Streetlights flash across the windshield, and I catch Cami’s reflection: bare shoulders, tense jaw, eyes fixed straight ahead. She looks composed. Perfect. Except for how her fingers twist the edge of her clutch like it’s the only thing keeping her composed.
Rain begins to fall as I pull away, the Aston growling while gala lights fade in my rearview mirror.
Cami’s perfume hits again, sparking memories of us in Crystal Cove.
She’s off-limits. Because the last thing I’d ever do is put her in a position where she’d have to choose between her father and me.
