Page 40 of Beautiful Enemy

We head in through the front door, staff immediately descending to offer us drinks. I’m distracted from the sudden surge of nerves by the gorgeous house, every wall filled with art, every corner with lush plants.

On the terrace, a hundred people are milling about. There’s a six-piece band in one corner and a dance floor. Torches light the huge outside space, with recessed lighting on the inside.

“This place is incredible,” I murmur to Ash.

“Christian had it built as his holiday home. He spared no expense. He never does.”

Before long, people are approaching us—approaching Harrison mostly. When pressed, he introduces me as Raegan. No one calls me Raegan, but as unsettling as it is, there’s something new about it on his lips.

I’d been expecting Harrison to be distant like in the car or confrontational like every other time, but he’s the opposite. He stands close enough to steer me with a hand on my back, but his presence feels protective rather than controlling.

For a minute, I wonder what it would feel like to be on his arm for real. He’s a king here, and not only in name. This world he plays in, he runs it.

The men he considers rivals must be formidable indeed.

One of the women smiles in my direction as Harrison and her husband, who’s in media, talk global news and business. It’s a strange vibe as she leans in. “Do you model?”

I choke on my drink. “Not lately.”

“Ah. Harrison is a master at keeping beautiful women on his arm. But I suppose things change.”

Her catty tone makes me stiffen. Next to me, Harrison glances over in the middle of his sentence. As if he didn’t hear but sensed my reaction.

A hand on my back has awareness tingling up my spine.

“You know,” I say to her, “I was reading a story last week about how this wine tasting club was served the wrong wine. Instead of a thousand-dollar bottle, they got a twenty-dollar one. And they gave it rave reviews.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Quality doesn’t come from a label,” Harrison cuts in smoothly.

The fact that he was listening enough to stay on top of my conversation, not only his, has gratitude blooming in my stomach.

He leans in, brushing his lips against my ear. “Everything all right?”

“I can handle them.”

“I know you can. That’s why I brought you.” But he squeezes my arm, a brief reassurance as genuine as it is surprising.

I’m not comfortable at large events. Unless I’m performing, where I have distance from the crowd, I prefer small groups with people I know.

When I stopped going to parties in high school, around the same time I started working on my music, I figured my friends would understand.

They didn’t.

The girls who used to invite me to things turned their backs on me.

When I tried to explain that I couldn’t relax and enjoy myself, they froze me out.

Evidently our friendship was based on gushing over our older brothers’ college friends, and getting drunk enough we couldn’t remember what we did the next day.

Once neither of those things appealed to me, I stopped appealing to them.

Tonight, Harrison’s telling me he knows I’ve got this. But in case I don’t, he’s got me.

It’s that realization that has me pulling back. “I, ah, need to find a bathroom.”

I duck out, feeling his gaze between my shoulders.

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