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And Bishop—he looks happy. Not his camera-ready smile. Not the grin he gives reporters or fans walking into the arena in a sharp suit. He looks at home. My gaze shifts to the girl standing beside him.

Me.

But I’m not looking at the camera. I’m looking up at Bishop.

A familiar little ache presses beneath my ribs. I think about the photo I left behind. Was I always that obvious? I lean closer, as if the answer might change if I look hard enough.

It isn’t.

I’m seventeen, maybe eighteen, and it is written all over my face. That same stupid softness I spent years convincing myself no one could see. Especially him.

God. How many pictures are like this out there? How many birthdays and hockey games and family cookouts did I spend looking at Bishop when I was supposed to be looking somewhere else? And did everyone know? Did he know?

The thought stings more than it should. Because I’ve spent years believing my crush on my brother’s best friend was this carefully guarded secret. A confession I’d buried behind arguments, eye rolls, and pretending his stupid, sexy smile didn’t make my stomach flip.

Sometimes I wonder how he didn’t see it, or worse—maybe he always knew and simply never cared.

I swallow around the tightness in my throat and turn for my own room.

“That’s enough humiliation for one day.”

Even Darcy knows enough to keep his thoughts to himself this time.

I walk past a walk-in closet, no longer in the mood for a room tour, but then a giant tub catches my eye through a pair of double doors leading to the en suite bathroom.

I can’t help myself. I peek into Bishop’s bathroom and immediately resent my own.

His shower is partially the size of a penalty box, all dark tile and glass, with one of those giant rainfall showerheads that probably costs more than my first car.

But it’s the tub that gets me. Deep. White. It sits beneath the windows, with the Chicago skyline spread out beyond it. I run my fingertips along the cool edge—a warm bubble bath and a book sound like the perfect way to unwind. There are very few things I would love more right now than sinking into that tub until the water goes cold and losing myself in another world for a while. Especially considering I refused to shower last night.

One look at that hotel bathroom and twenty years of Declan and Bishop forcing me through horror-movie marathons came rushing back. I know, statistically speaking, hotel showers are probably safe, but I’ve seen too many scary movies to risk it.

I look at the tub again with a sigh. Tempting. Really tempting. But even standing in Bishop’s bathroom fully dressed feels strangely intimate, and I already feel exposed. Stripping down and bathing in his tub feels like crossing some invisible line I can’t quite explain.

I pull my hand away. “Yeah, not happening.”

Darcy meows from Bishop’s bed.

“Shh! I have my own shower.” A perfectly adequate, normal-sized shower right across the hall. Where I can wash away the past twenty-four hours without imagining Hayes Bishop doing the same thing exactly where I’m standing.

My brain supplies the image anyway. Wet blond hair. Water running over–

“Nope.”

I turn on my heel, grabbing Darcy on my way out. Closing Bishop’s door, I make sure it latches this time. Back across the hall, I deposit Darcy on my bed.

After my shower, my phone alerts me to missed texts.

Three from Mom.

One from Declan.

I fall back on the bed with a sigh and let everyone who loves me know I’m safe and sound inside Bishop’s luxurious penthouse.

And there are a lot of people who love me. I’ve never doubted their love. Not Mom’s. Not Dad’s. Not Declan’s. Not even Bishop’s. Their kind of love is unconditional.

Maybe that’s always been the problem.