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“No,” she’d protested. “Just respectful of people’s talent.”
His eyes had held hers for a fleeting second, an expression she couldn’t quite decipher on his face, and then he’d excused himself and crossed to someone else at the party.
She’d found her gaze moving to him often throughout that night. For some reason, she’d always seemed to know where he was—and somehow, he’d caught her looking every time.
It had irritated her.
He’dirritated her. Every time their stares collided, a smile had curled his lips.
Jerk.
She’d tried to stay clear of him for the rest of the night, but at one point, they’d ended up standing next to each other at the bar. She’d done her best to pretend he wasn’t there, but he’d started singing Nick Blackthorne’s “Gotta Run”. Not loud enough to draw anyone else’s attention, of course, but loud enough for her to hear.
She’d snapped around to face him. “You’re not funny. And you’re a bad singer.”
Grinning, he’d leant his elbow on the bar and looked at her. “Iamfunny. And trust me, singing’s not my talent.”
She’d cocked an eyebrow at him. “Clearly.”
He’d arched one in return. “Could still beat Nick at a karaoke contest though.”
She’d snorted. “You’re delusional. God help your patients.”
He’d narrowed his eyes. “Are you always this snarky?”
“Are you always this arrogant?” she’d shot back. “I mean, I know he’s your cousin, and you Australians are weird with the whole insulting each other thing, but Nick Blackthorne isn’tjusta singer. My God, he’s one of the biggest philanthropists for animal rights causes around the world. Did you know a hundred percent of profits from his last album—The Best of Blackthorn—was donated to the World Wildlife Fund?”
He’d chuckled an irritating know-it-all laugh. “So youarea groupie.”
“I’mnota groupie,” she’d snapped. “His music is not my taste at all. Too angsty and melodramatic and—” she’d searched for a word to shut down his insistence she was a groupie, “—contrived.”
Mick had pulled away from the bar a little, and turned to the tall, lean man with shaggy salt-and-pepper hair standing on the other side of him. “Contrived. There’s one I bet you haven’t heard before, cousin.”
Nick Blackthorne—theNick Blackthorne—had laughed. “Nope. Haven’t heard that one before.” He smiled at Zeta, a gleam in his eye, and lifted the glass in his hand. “To being contrived.”
The floor had engulfed Zeta. Or at least, she’d wanted it to.
She’d stared at the famous rock star for a heartbeat, blustered out an apology, thrown Mick a glare, and almost bolted from the bar back to where Elisa and Angus were talking to someone she didn’t know on the opposite side of the party. The bastard had walked herrightinto that with premeditative ease.
And that had been it for her and Mick.
Except for the times she’d found herself looking for him, practicing in her head the absolute roasting she would give him if they came face-to-face again.
They hadn’t.
Not for the rest of the engagement party.
Their stares had clashed more than once, but he’d stayed away from her, and she’d stayed away from him.
Far away.
Which was good, because he was an arrogant—
“Zeta,” someone whispered at her. “Earth to Zeta?”
She blinked, her attention focusing back on the beach and the wedding, on the here and now.
Bria was looking at her. No,everyonewas looking at her. Elisa, the celebrant, Owen, Angus, Mick…
