Page 64 of Beautiful Enemy

“How charitable,” I tease.

I realize my mistake immediately as he steps between my knees, forcing my legs apart.

There are mere inches between us, and my heart is racing.

Keeping my voice level is an impossible task. “I don’t celebrate my birthday.” I lift the glasses from his face, folding them and tucking them into the breast pocket of his jacket. “It’s cursed.”

He snorts. “How do you figure?”

“It’s a long story. And you should be warned… everyone has a birthday. I might get you back on yours.”

Blue eyes darken to a flinty gray. “You’d have to stick around.”

Surprise has me straightening even as footsteps from upstairs interrupt. Natalia.

Harrison leans across me to close the case of glasses, near enough his scent invades my senses.

“Two extra days is one thing, but I can’t imagine staying longer,” I murmur, though suddenly I’m wondering what it would be like. “For one, there’s the small issue of you hating me.”

“I never hated you. I wanted you to fix the damage your words caused.”

“You wanted to punish me,” I challenge. “I got up in your business and dared to ask questions about the inimitable Harrison King, and you didn’t like it.”

His gaze roams my face, then lower. Harrison moves my hair behind my shoulder before wrapping it around his hand like a rope. He tugs on it, forcing my head back, and leans in, his mouth grazing my ear. “I still want to punish you.”

His hips press closer, near enough that I feel his hard length between my thighs.

With one jerk of his hands, he could have me on my back.

But when his phone goes off, he shifts away. I resist the urge to wipe my forehead and see if it’s damp as the rest of me.

“Don’t bother arguing about the birthday,” he says when he pockets the device again. “You’ll need to pack a couple of bags for our outing.”

“I only have one. What kinds of activities are we doing?”

He turns for the door.

“Drinking? Walking? Swimming?” I demand.

“Yes.”

I exhale, irritated by the lack of specificity. “Are there sharks?”

He turns back, his heated gaze sweeping my body. “Count on it.”

* * *

I think about those words.

As I try to work on my set for the night, then as I meet up with Leni to talk through new ideas for next weekend.

We hit a high of more than sixteen hundred people, and the bar staff makes me do shots until I trip out of the VIP room high-fiving everyone along the way.

The next day, I head down to a café I like, wearing my wig and sunglasses to meet the interviewer I agreed to see from social media.

The costume helps me feel protected, like this is part of my onstage persona and not edging into my personal life. It reminds me I’m still Little Queen here, not Rae Madani.

“How did you get into producing? You’re notoriously tight-lipped about that,” she asks when we’re seated at a table.

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