“Want me to come?” Fish asks.
“I think I can manage ordering a champagne by myself,” I tease. “Go enjoy your party. It’s your night.” He deserves this. He’s worked hard, and this is his moment, not mine.
I weave through the crowd toward the bar. It feels good to breathe without his cologne in my nose and his stupid blue eyes making me forget what words are.You are not attracted to Fish.You are dehydrated and possibly drunk.I lean against the bar, waiting for the bartender’s attention, letting the noise of the party wash over me. The DJ has switched to something with more bass, and a couple of people are dancing near the edge ofthe terrace. The city is loud below us, even from up here there’s a constant hum that never stops.
“The champagne is surprisingly decent for a fashion event,” a deep voice says beside me.
I turn, and there’s a man I definitely didn’t see approach. Tall, maybe six-three, with dirty blond hair pushed back in that effortless way that probably took forty-five minutes, and green eyes that catch the string lights above us. He has a jaw that could have its own billboard, and probably does because he’s clearly one of the models from the campaign. He’s in a cream suit with no shirt underneath, and somehow, he’s pulling it off, which should be illegal.Hello.Down, girl.
“You sound like you’ve been to a lot of these events,” I say.
“Occupational hazard.” He grins. “I’m Alton.”
“Collette.”
“I know.” My brows shoot up. “You came in with Pierre and Felix St. Pierre. I’m going to assume you’re their sister.”
And just like that, the spark dies. The familiar heaviness settles back into my chest. Every time. Every single time. It’s never justyou’re beautiful,orI noticed you across the room. It’s always your brothers.
“You would be right.”
“Sorry, that probably sounded creepy. I’m a Mavericks fan,” he confesses.I nod, reaching for my champagne from the bartender. “I’m sure you get that all the time.”I nod.I do, and I’m so tired of it.“And that just killed it, didn’t it?” he says, reading my face before I can even attempt to be polite about it.
“Killed what?”
“Whatever small chance I had of you not walking away in the next thirty seconds.” He takes a sip of his champagne, completely unbothered. “I can see it. You went from interested to polite.”Okay. Wasn’t expecting honesty.
“I didn’t say I was leaving.”
“You didn’t have to. Your body shifted half an inch toward the exit the second I mentioned your brothers.” He says it with zero accusation, just observation, and the accuracy of it is annoying. “I’m guessing every guy you meet brings them up.”
“Not every single one.”
“That must be exhausting.”
You have no idea.“It has its moments.”
He nods slowly, sets his glass down on the bar, and turns to face me properly. “Okay, let me try this again. Hi, I’m Alton. I’m a model who studied architecture and can’t cook to save his life. I worked the campaign with Justin Crawford, who, by the way, is a nightmare to shoot with because the guy can’t stop talking.” This makes me laugh, a real one, not a polite one. “And I came over here to talk to a beautiful woman who looked like she needed rescuing from her own thoughts.”
He called you beautiful.Don’t melt. You’re better than this.I study him for a moment. He holds my gaze, doesn’t fidget, doesn’t backtrack. “Architecture?” I ask.
His grin widens because he knows that means he’s back in. “Yeah. Specialized in sustainable residential design before this face became more profitable.” He gestures at himself with mock disgust. “The universe has a sick sense of humor.”
“So, you traded blueprints for billboards.”
“Temporarily. Buildings are forever. This jaw has maybe five good years left.”
“Generous,” I tease.
“Brutal.” He laughs, and it’s warm and easy, and he doesn’t look at me like he’s calculating what my brothers would do to him. He just looks at me.This is nice, normal. This is what it feels like to talk to a man who doesn’t play hockey.
“What about you? Is social media what you always wanted to do?” he asks.
“I grew up around hockey, so it was always going to be something in that world. I just didn’t think it would involve arguing with athletes about talking into a mini mic.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”