Page 8 of Wicked Rockstar

After a quick smile at the hostess, she headed towards the bar.

Towards me.

Well, fuck.

I hadn’t moved quickly enough. It looked like my luck in avoiding her had run out.

Chapter Three

TRISSA

Ismoothed a hand down my emerald green dress, the sequins cool and sharp beneath my fingers. I loved how the style hugged my plus-size curves in a way that gave me even more confidence. A kind salesperson had helped me find it a few years ago when I needed to get dressed up for an awards show honoring Peter.

Luminosity sure lived up to its online photos. The chandeliers cast a warm glow over the elegant dining room and bar. The gentle murmur of conversation and the soft clink of silverware created a sophisticated setting that made me grateful I’d hunted through my moving boxes to find this dress—the fanciest one I owned.

As I waited for the hostess, I caught the scent of seared steak and truffle oil, making my stomach growl. I hadn’t eaten all day. My nerves from this morning’s near-disaster and tonight’s dinner with Peter had rendered me too anxious to keep anything down.

“Welcome to Luminosity,” the hostess greeted me with a practiced smile.

“Hi, I’m meeting Peter Young. Has he arrived?” The name felt weighted on my tongue, carrying years of history and unspoken feelings.

Only a slight widening of the hostess’s eyes betrayed her recognition. “No, I’m sorry, ma’am. He isn’t here yet. If you’d like, you can wait at the bar until he arrives.”

“Thank you,” I murmured, clutching my purse tighter to my soft stomach as I weaved my way past her and others to the bar. A drink might calm my uneasiness. Although, a small part of me whispered that liquid courage wouldn’t guarantee the perfect night.

Nervous energy zinged to the tips of my toes and fingers, keeping me on edge. Now that I had slowed down, I began to worry about the night and what it could mean for Peter and me.

As I approached the bar, my gaze swept over the patrons. Despite being a Wednesday, it was packed. Only two or three seats remained open at the far end. I was so focused on securing a spot that I almost missed the familiar silhouette attempting to stand from his seat at the bar.

My breath caught in my throat.

Killian.

Memories flooded back—late nights writing songs, his laughter echoing in the school hallways, the warmth of his arm around me as we faced the world together. And then, he disappeared. One day we were best friends and the next we suddenly stopped talking.

When I asked Peter about it, he said that Killian just wanted different things and sometimes friendships faded. That we had to accept it and move on. So I did, but I never stopped thinking of him or feeling sad that our little group—the three of us who’d vowed to face the world together—no longer existed.

I’d followed Killian’s career over the years, always rooting for him and his success from the sidelines. But until now, we hadn’trun into each other. He was a big star in his own right, but Peter eclipsed Killian’s career in every way.

I hesitated, torn between approaching him and pretending I hadn’t seen him. Before I could decide, my clutch vibrated with an incoming text.Probably Peter, I thought with a mixture of anticipation and resigned humor. He’d never been on time a day in his life.

Distracted by fishing my phone from my far too-small clutch, I missed the patron who suddenly pushed out from his barstool. Pain shot from my bicep to my wrist as I collided with the heavy wood and stumbled.

Crap.It was just my luck I’d fall flat on my face during my most important night ever.

Firm hands grasped my waist, steadying me. The touch sent an unexpected jolt of electricity through my body.

“Thank you—” I started, lifting my gaze to meet stormy blue eyes I’d know anywhere. “Killian?” My voice broke on his name, years of unspoken words crowding behind it.

“I think you need to watch where you’re going, Tink.” The old nickname he’d given me rolled off his tongue, and my heart squeezed painfully in my chest. Tinker Bell— because I’d always flitted from one task to another and given my full name, Trissabelle, he said it fit.

His hands still rested at the curve of my waist, the heat and strength of them radiating through the fabric of my dress. I found myself hyper-aware of every point of contact, my skin prickling with a dangerous mix of familiarity and longing.

Killian’s eyes didn’t waver as I took in his changed appearance. The photos online and the interviews on television hadn’t captured the tiny details—the small scar above his eyebrow, the strong jawline, the flecks of gold in his irises, or the strength of his touch that spoke of working out.

Gone was the boy I remembered. In his place was a man who exuded confidence, sexual appeal, and barely-contained intensity. His longish, curly jet black hair fell across his forehead, and I fought the overwhelming urge to push it back. My eyes widened as I recognized the desire to run my fingers over the scruff of his trimmed beard to see how it felt against my skin.

What was happening to me?Bewildered by this foreign train of thought—he wasn’t mine to touch—I struggled to find words.

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