I blink, my pulse thrashing in my ears.“What?”
Lily tilts her chin toward the stage, and I follow her gaze.
Straight to him.
To Joel.
Who drops his guitar and is heading directly for me.
Oh,shit.
Joel barely acknowledges the people reaching for him—the girl in the front row who tries to grab his arm, the guys who clap him on the back, the fans calling his name.
Another girl reaches for him, fingers skimming his chest.He doesn’t slow.
His focus doesn’t break.
And with every inch that closes between us, something inside me coils tighter.
A slow, suffocating pull low in my stomach.
My pulse stumbles, a rapid, uneven thrash in my throat.
I can’t breathe.
Or maybe I’m breathing too much, too fast, too hard.
But I don’t look away.
His eyes are locked on one thing.
Me.
And holy fuck.
“Oh, girl.He’s gotthe look,” Myles mutters, sounding equal parts impressed and entertained from the other side of the bar.
London nods sagely.“That’s definitely theI’ve-made-up-my-goddamn-mind-and-nothing-is-stopping-melook.”
My pulse stutters.
Is it?Is that what this is?
Myles slides a shot glass in front of me with some sort of bartender-level wisdom.
“Babe,” she says, tone serious, “you look like you might need this.”
I stare at it.I stare at them.I can’t possibly even think about that right now.
Instead, I turn to stare at Joel, still closing the distance between us, still looking like nothing else in the world exists.
Something shifts.
Not in the club.Not in the crowd.
Inme.
Joel moves through the bodies like a force field surrounds him, still brushing off hands that reach for him, barely acknowledging the people calling his name.