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Professional.

Exactly what a Broadway performer should look like.

I’ve washed and dried my hair, letting the copper waves fall over my shoulders. My makeup is heavier than I’d usually wear, but that’s normal for the stage—contour, liner, bold lashes, the works.

Still, when I look in the mirror before leaving the bedroom, I pause.

Not because I doubt myself.

But because I know exactly who I’m about to walk out and face.

Less.

The man who broke my heart.

And unfortunately, he still has the power to make my stomach flutter like a damn teenager.

I square my shoulders and open the door.

And promptly, I almost trip over my own feet.

Not because of the small heels.

Though those probably aren’t helping.

No, it’s because Less is standing in the living room wearing a suit.

A black one.

Tailored.

Perfect.

The white shirt beneath it stretches across his chest, and the dark tie makes his eyes look almost black under the low lights.

He looks devastating.

Like some kind of dangerous movie star who wandered into the wrong film and decided to stay.

He freezes the second he sees me.

Completely still.

His dark gaze drags slowly over me from head to toe.

Not subtle.

Not polite.

Hungry.

I think I hear him groan under his breath.

My pulse jumps.

I lick my lips before I can stop myself.

“Damn it, Rusty,” he says quietly. “You look⁠—”