Page 48 of Enemies

It’s thrilling. I did this, but it feels like a shared victory. Shared with Leni, the team here, and the man I never thought I’d want to share anything with.

I make a change, dropping in a new song I’ve been working on. As the chorus comes on, the man I’m totally not watching out of the corner of my eye leans over the railing upstairs.

When I lift my chin and catch him staring, I’m knocked off balance by the expression on his face.

Each beat I feel his eyes on me is a thrill.

A dirty promise that feels less dangerous with the distance between us.

I lift both hands in the air and flip off the catwalk.

A few of the well-dressed people above gasp, but most ignore me.

Harrison King, a decade older than me and probably a dozen tax brackets above, leans elegantly over the railing separating the upstairs VIP booth from the crowd with a glass in one hand.

Then he lifts the other hand and offers me the same finger I gave him.

Good God.

I’m dead. Slain.

If a billionaire flipping me off makes my ovaries flutter, I’m a fucked-up woman.

But it does, and I am, and the smirk on his face is so sexy it makes me throb.

When my set concludes, I drink a gallon of water and take selfies with every fan before I head to the private VIP lounge. Security offers grins and fist bumps along the way.

Leni descends on me the moment I set foot through the door. “You were fucking rad tonight. Keep doing this, I’ll take you on a surfing trip the next time I’m home.”

“Deal.”

Inside, the room is bustling with twice the usual dozen or so VIPs. Harrison’s seated in a booth with a handful of the people from upstairs, perfectly collected in a dark suit that sets off his clear, blue eyes. His legs are stretched out in front of him, women on each side looking as if they’d like to crawl into his lap.

I catch his eye and jerk my head toward the bar.

With a cocked brow, he shifts out of the booth.

“More spoiled princesses?” I ask as he falls into step next to me.

“Business associates.”

I feel every inch of him in my space. We’re not touching, but having him near is oh so good.

Once we get to the bar, I lean an elbow on it and hold up the sheet of paper from Leni. “Guess what this number is?”

He’s close enough I can smell his ocean scent.

“Your SAT score.”

I smack his shoulder. “It’s the door, dumbass.”

Harrison lifts his cool, blue gaze to mine, but the triumph behind it matches the way I feel.

I grin as two drinks are set in front of us. We clink glasses, our arguments set aside for a moment as we share in a victory we’ve both wanted for different reasons.

“How do you like the espresso machine?” he asks.

“It’s very shiny.”

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