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"Okay?" I repeat, surprised by how easily she agreed.

"We'll come to your party." She takes Emily's arm. "See you there, rock star."

As they walk away, I realize I'm grinning like an idiot. Marcus sidles up beside me.

"Who was that?" he asks, watching them leave.

"Trouble," I answer. "Definitely trouble."

My penthouse is packed by the time they arrive by my band members, industry people, and beautiful hangers-on. I've been watching the door like a teenager waiting for his prom date and nursing the same whiskey for an hour.

When Dahlia walks in, the entire room shifts. Or maybe that's just my perception. She's changed into a simple black dress that hugs every curve, her wild hair is now partially pinned up to expose the elegant line of her neck. Emily bounces in behind her, already wide-eyed at the celebrity-studded room.

I make my way to them, ignoring the people trying to get my attention.

"You came," I say, stopping in front of her.

"I said I would." She glances around. "You have a very nice place. Very... rock star."

"What were you expecting? Skulls and pentacles?"

"At minimum," she deadpans. "I'm disappointed by the lack of goat sacrifices."

I laugh, delighted by her dry humor. "The night's still young."

Emily tugs on Dahlia's arm. "Oh my god, is that Maxin over there? I'm going to die."

"Go," Dahlia encourages her. "I'll be fine."

As Emily darts off into the crowd, I take the opportunity to move closer to Dahlia. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Just water for now," she says. "I need a clear head tonight."

"Are you expecting trouble?"

"Always." She pulls out her phone, checks it, then puts it away with a frown.

"Waiting for an important call?" I ask, leading her toward the bar.

"Something like that."

I signal the bartender for water and another whiskey. "Boyfriend?"

She snorts. "No. Work."

"What kind of work has you checking your phone at midnight?"

"The complicated kind." She accepts the water with a nod of thanks. "I'm a geneticist and a specialist in rare genetic mutations."

"A scientist… That's... not what I expected."

"Let me guess. You thought I was a model? An actress?"

"Honestly? I had no idea. You don't fit any box I'm familiar with."

She takes a sip of water, watching me over the rim of her glass. "And you're used to women fitting into neat little boxes?"

"Touché." I clink my glass against hers. "So, genetics. That's why you're so observant. You're trained to notice details."