Page 47 of Enemies

There’s no dwelling on the humiliation, though, because he’s coming back. And I’m looking forward to seeing him.

Instead of my fucked-up feelings over one mysterious billionaire, I focus on this evening’s set.

I choose a black jumpsuit, plus the wedge sandals that were returned to me by one of Christian’s staff the day after the gala. Once I got over the embarrassment of being tracked down to return the footwear I left in the hall, I decided to break them in.

I like how feminine I feel. Not as much beautiful as powerful.

A goddess, in Harrison’s words.

I line my eyes extra dark and take care with my shiny, neutral lip gloss.

“Are you coming tonight?” I ask Ash on my way out.

“I have a date. But it’s a secret.” He winks.

“Damn secrets. Between you and Harry?—”

“Harry?” He cocks a brow. “Have you called him that to his face?”

I glare. “Are you ten years old?”

“Nope, and neither are you.” His gaze runs down my body. “Which is why it’ll be interesting when he finds out.”

Unreal.

“You get why he’s more of a prick than usual around you. He’s not used to wanting what he can’t have. Between you and La Mer...it’s a rough summer for him.”

As I get into the front seat of the car with Toro, I’m still thinking of Harrison.

I miss his suits. His smooth voice, his icy-blue stare, the firm lips that make my stomach tighten imagining how they’d feel on mine.

How they’d feel other places.

When I get to the club, I drop off coffee and pastries I purchased on the way with security, wave to everyone as I get ready for my set. I even accept a drink to take the edge off.

The crowd goes crazy when I’m introduced and I take over the booth.

Energy flows through me, hot and electric. A power surge of my own creation reflected back at me.

I take it all.

Without thinking, I look up at his private booth. There’s a crowd in suits and cocktail dresses. A dozen men and women are spilling out of the booth and onto the catwalk.

The hairs on my neck lift before I catch sight of his golden head, angular jaw, and square shoulders through the crowd.

Harrison’s back.

A surge of emotion rockets through me.

Anticipation, nerves, longing.

I watch as a bartender serves drinks, and they toast.

One woman leans over to whisper in his ear. When her hand lingers on the shoulder of his jacket, I almost fuck up my transition.

But someone nudges my shoulder with a champagne bucket of ice and waters. Plus a bottle of champagne nestled in the middle, a number on a Post-it stuck to the glass.

The door, I realize. Fourteen hundred sixty-three.

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