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This was not fine.

This was the opposite of fine.

This was me, lying in bed at midnight, overthinking every interaction with a woman who drove a BMW and had hands that felt like they'd been designed to cripple my sanity, wondering what would've happened if that phone hadn't rung.

Wondering if I wanted to know.

Wondering if I was brave enough to find out.

"Fuck," I said to my apartment.

My phone buzzed again.

@camrusso: Goodnight, Harper.

I stared at the message for a long time before typing back.

@harperdubs: goodnight cam

Then I put my phone on my nightstand, rolled over, and tried very hard to fall asleep.

Failed, obviously.

But at least I was failing in private.

That was worth something.

Right?

8

Eyes Up Here

Cam

Charity galas existed in a special circle of hell reserved for people whose sins weren't quite severe enough for eternal damnation but required penance nonetheless.

I stood near the bar of the Stars Align Gala ballroom, surrounded by Fashion City's elite in their designer armor, holding a glass of champagne I had no intention of drinking. The Fangs organization co-sponsored this fundraiser every year alongside the owners of the team, the Abdulayevs for scholarships for underprivileged youth, community programs, children's hospitals, and art education. All worthy causes that required me to smile at strangers who wanted to discuss three-pointers while I pretended their proximity didn’t make my skin itch with the need to escape.

The ballroom glittered with, well, excess. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls, their light fragmenting across white tablecloths and gleaming silverware. Floral arrangements erupted from table centers in explosions of roses and orchids and lilies, cream and blush and deep burgundy bleeding into each other like expensive wounds. The air hummed with wealth, with the density of people who'd never worried about money discussing their charitable contributions.

Two hours. I could survive two hours of this performance.

I'd survived worse. Championship games played on a torn meniscus. Post-game interviews after losses that felt like failures of character rather than circumstance. Sunday dinners where my mother asked, with horrifying tenderness, when I'd bring a nice girl home to meet the family.

This was nothing.

Then Harper walked in wearing a skin-tight emerald evening gown, and every carefully constructed thought in my head scattered like a bad pass.

The dress was sleeveless, fitted to her body with the kind of exactness that suggested either witchcraft or a very expensive tailor. The emerald fabric made her skin luminous, with rich brown catching the chandelier light and transforming her into something that belonged in museums, behind glass, out of reach. Her hair was down, those wild curls tamed into glossy waves that cascaded over one shoulder, and she'd done her makeup in a way that made her eyes look even darker, deeper, criminally attractive.

She looked like trouble wrapped in silk. Like every warning I'd ever ignored made manifest in couture.

I set down my champagne before my hands could betray me by trembling.

Harper scanned the room, eyes glinting in the sparkling lights, found Mia and Laine near the silent auction tables, and started moving toward them. I tracked her progress through the crowd the way I'd track an opponent's movement on court. I was aware of every step, every shift in weight, every last person who turned to stare as she passed.

Men and women both turned to look because of course they did. Harper moved through the space like she owned it, like she knew exactly what she was doing to every person watching. That was the performance, the pretense of obliviousness while being hyperaware of every eye on her skin.