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Maybe this time, I’ll believe it.
Four
Jude
Say what you will about Leo Corbin, CEO of Grapevine—he really knows how to throw a party. Or at least his assistant does, since Hazel has been run ragged for months planning tonight, always sucking on a giant iced coffee whenever she hustles past in the office, muttering under her breath about vendors and invites and canapes.
When I step out onto the skyscraper rooftop, the stars glitter high above, and Hazel is there, practically vibrating with excitement by the boss’s side. She’s in a pink cocktail dress, her blonde hair tied in a high ponytail, while he looms over her like a grumpy raven.
Mr Corbin nods at me, expression dour, and pumps my hand. “Thank you for coming…”
Hazel leans close to him and whispers, “Jude.”
“Jude.” The boss attempts a small smile, then aborts with a huff, waving me into the party. “Enjoy.”
Stifling a grin, I nudge past and plunge into the crowd as Hazel’s hissed recriminations fade behind me. Only the boss’sbubbly assistant ever tells him off, and I would fucking love to eavesdrop—but there’s no time tonight. No time to think about anything except one thing.
Violet Moore is here.
She’snear.
She’s somewhere on this rooftop, dressed in evening wear. Sipping a drink, or laughing with that girl from Accounts, or—god forbid—dancing in that press of bodies, twined around some jerk from Legal. Shit. And I’ve pissed myself off with that last scenario, my strides getting longer and my chest pinching tight, but when I scan the makeshift dance floor… Violet’s not there.
Whew.
Okay. Bullet dodged.
Swallowing hard, I tug at my collar and peer around the party, taking it in properly for the first time. The rooftop bustles with bodies, and string lights climb trellises behind three pop-up bars. A live band plays from a small stage, their music upbeat, while guests laugh and chat in small groups and nibble on canapes.
In the center of the roof glows a swimming pool. Steam rises in billowing clouds off the water, and dappled light dances on the surface. Most people are giving the pool a wide berth, treating it like a water feature, but a few guests have already plopped down on the sun loungers for a more casual chat.
Sothisis how Leo Corbin lives. Hazel let it slip once in the break room—that this ishisbuilding, and the boss lives in the penthouse apartment. It’s his private rooftop. Though it’s impossible to picture him swimming laps in the pool or stretching out on a sun lounger on a Sunday morning, working through the week’s crossword.
It’s too human. Surely his grumpy circuits would fry.
“Violet!”
The voice comes from behind me. I wheel around, face already cracking into a grin. But it’s not her—of course it’s not her, why would Violet call her own name? She’s not a fucking Pokemon—it’s that girl from Accounts. The quiet, curvy one with the school ma’am glasses. She’s clinging to a handsome man’s arm, waving across the crowd, hopping from foot-to-foot with excitement.
Can’t blame her. That’s how I feel whenever I see Violet Moore, too: ready to float up to the ceiling. And—Christ, there she is, slipping easily through the press of bodies, draped in mist-colored silk. Violet’s lips are red, like always, and her long legs end in strappy heels. A warm smile plays around her mouth as she goes to hug her friend.
“Darius,” Violet says when she steps back, nodding at her friend’s date. Sothat’swhy he’s familiar—he’s Grapevine’s star composer. The closest thing our company has to a celebrity. Violet glances between the pair of them, bemused but happy. “I didn’t expect… well. Hi. Nice to see you.”
The composer slings an arm around his date’s shoulder, and the girl from Accounts flushes bright red. “You too.”
Violet looks like she has a million questions, like she’s ready to drag her friend aside for a gossip fest, but screw it—I’ve hung back for long enough. Have already exercised extreme patience where my rival is concerned.
It’s been hours since we spoke. Hours! Ineedto see her up close.
When I step forward, Violet jolts, the smile dropping off her face.
I don’t love that, but the beautiful shiver that coasts through her… that helps soothe the blow. Violet’s lips part, and her nostrils flare as she sucks in a deep breath.
“Judas,” she greets flatly. Does she even realize that she’s leaning toward me? Craning forward like a flower seeking sunshine? The others turn away, greeting someone else.
“Hello Violet.”
Already we’re drifting away together to a quiet spot, pulled like magnets. Already her pupils are dilating, and she’s wetting her lips, and my abs are clenched beneath my dark blue shirt. Every moment with this woman feels like foreplay.
