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“I wonder why?” Chrissa cocks her head. “He talked to us just fine.”
Emelia sniffs. “It’s a little different. You’re—” Her glance flicks to me and Demi, dismissing us. “New.”
“We’re friends,” Demi pipes in. “You’re not.”
“I’m the mother of his child.”
Her words jolt me like I’ve stuck my finger in a light socket. “No, you’re not,” I say without thinking. “The paternity test proved he’s not. There’s DNA proof he’s not. And you’re not stupid enough to ignore the evidence, so you must be just trying to exploit him for his money and family connections.” I pile on the scorn. “It’s sad, really.”
“Who the hell are you?” Emelia says, eyes narrowed like a snake about to strike.
“I’m his—”
“His friend,” Chrissa cuts me off. “We’re his friends. And we’ve got his back.”
“And Fiona’s.”
I had no idea little, happy, pink-haired Shae could look so steely-eyed as she and Bexley stare down Emelia.
Arabella lifts her hands, tapping her fingers delicately. “What did I miss here?” she asks.
Rachel snorts with laughter behind me.
“Nothing,” I say in a firm voice. “Absolutely nothing. I’ll be sure to tell Mase you need to speak with him,” I tell Emelia. “He won’t care, though. He’s through with you.”
“Are we dancing or what?” Biba demands.
En masse, stronger than any army, we brush past Emelia and continue to the dance floor. I don’t miss the flurry of comments from the model posse.
I draw in a shaky breath, and then another.
“You just told off Emelia Ainsley,” Shae crows. “Good job.”
Bexley looks at me searchingly. “Who are you tonight?”
I’m buzzing like my body is made up of angry bees. The high of being on stage mixed with the look on Emelia’s face—but then buzzing stops abruptly and a trapdoor drops me through the floor. What did I do? I’ve never told offanyone, let alone a model who commands six figures for a photo shoot and is known the world over?
And I was so caught up thinking about Mase that I didn’t even recognize her.
“I’m me,” I say in disbelief. “Just me.”
Bexley takes my hand. “You are amazing,” she says.
Mase
SometimesI’mgladI’ma Stirling.
Even without being on the guest list, I talk us into The Cave, hoping the girls are still there. There’s a need to see Fiona, an urge that keeps growing, like when I go too long without a hit. It aches.
Once inside, I scan the dance floor, searching for her strawberry blonde curls, not listening to the guys, not noticing anyone else, until a pair of arms wrap around my waist from behind.
“I knew you’d be here,” Emelia coos, standing on tiptoes, her mouth inches from my ear.
“Get your hands off me,” I growl, unwrapping her slim arms from the chokehold she has me in.
“Mase,” she chides, sliding around to face me. “We’re friends. I heard you’re all about making new friends.” She laughs without humour, and for the hundredth time, I wonder how I ever found her beautiful. “Where did youfindthem?”
“Emelia, for the last time, you need to stay away from me. And yes, I’m here with my friends, and you are not part of them. Have a good night.”
