Page 2

Chapter two

You’re the most ride-or-die person I know

Chase

O ne dance.

Like a complete fucking idiot, I follow her.

She drags me onto the dancefloor, her fingers still curled around my tie like she’s leading me into battle, but if she thinks I’m going to put up a fight, she’s wrong.

I’d follow her anywhere, not that she needs to know that.

The second we step into the crowd, the music shifts into something unfairly slow. It’s the kind of song meant for dim lighting and close quarters, so I half expect her to throw her hands up and bail.

Instead, she turns to face me, brows lifting. “Well? You asked for this.”

I grin. “I did. And I regret nothing.”

Her fingers loosen on my tie, trailing down the fabric before she lets go completely, and for some reason, I feel the loss of it like a punch.

She steps into me, and everything suddenly narrows.

The music, the people. The space between us.

I place my hands at her waist, feeling the soft slide of satin beneath my palms. She’s warm, and the second my hands close around her, a heavy and very fucking inconvenient thought drops into my skull.

She fits.

Zoe tilts her head. “You do know how to dance, right?”

“I play professional hockey.”

“And?”

“And I have excellent footwork.”

She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. “Christ, you’re impossible.”

“You love it.” I tug her a little closer, pretending it’s an accident and not exactly where I want her.

Zoe’s sharp chestnut eyes flit over my face, reading me the way she always does. She lets me lead, and it shouldn’t make my chest thunder, but it fucking does.

The song winds around us, and she follows my movements without hesitation. The thing about Zoe is, she hates giving me the upper hand. But when she does, she’s seamless.

The thought makes my throat dry with possibilities, ones I’ve had a million times over the years. “You know, I think you’re enjoying this.”

Her gaze flicks up. “I think you think too much of yourself.”

“Untrue. I’m very humble.”

She laughs, and it hits me deep—a body check straight to my ribs.

Get it together, Walton.

The music stretches, slower than before. I barely register my grip shifting, one palm sliding lower, fingertips pressing into the dip of her back. Not enough to push, but enough to let her know I could.

She notices. I know she does because her hand glides over my shoulder, and I don’t miss the way her fingers twitch as if she’s caught herself touching me and doesn’t know what to do with it.

I know what to do with it.

I splay my hands enough to make her aware of my fingers balancing delicately on the upper curve of her ass, and suddenly we’re not really dancing anymore. We’re just standing there swaying, pretending this is nothing.

She licks her lips. “Are you actually behaving right now?”

“You’d be disappointed if I was.”

Her scoff is a little breathless. “Oh, please.”

The song shifts again, but neither of us moves to step away.

Instead, Zoe’s gaze flicks to my mouth just for a second before she catches herself and lifts her chin, daring me to say something.

Oh, sweetheart .

I don’t need to say anything, I just grin. Because I’m definitely winning, and she exhales a slow breath like she knows it, too.

But just when I think maybe I could convince her to stay here with me a little longer, her hands loosen on my shoulders and she steps back, clearing her throat.

“I need another drink.”

I shove my hands into my pockets before I do something stupid. “Great idea.”

She looks at me for a beat, and then she’s moving, cutting across the dancefloor toward the bar.

I want to let her go. I should let her go.

But I fucking can’t.

Sighing loudly, I rake a hand through my hair, hoping the action will give me the solution I need to stop agonizing over this woman. To let her be. Before I can completely combust, I catch movement in my periphery.

Reid is watching me, smug as hell. His arms are crossed, expression unreadable, but his eyes say everything.

“You good there, Walton?”

“Great. Why?”

He shrugs a shoulder nonchalantly. “No reason. Just looked like you were ready to fall to your knees. Again.”

I roll my shoulders, jaw clenching. “Shut up, Hutchy.”

Reid doesn’t move, just keeps watching me, clearly waiting to see what I do next. Like he doesn’t already know.

I glare at him. Then at Zoe, who’s halfway to the bar, not looking back.

I plant my feet firmly just for a second to stay put. To be smart .

And for one long moment, I think I might.

Then she tucks her hair behind her ear. It’s nothing.

A small flick of her slender fingers through chocolatey waves, dusting her pulse point.

I’ve seen her do it a hundred times, but it still gets me every single time.

It’s an inevitable hook through my ribs, yanking me forward before I can stop it.

I mutter a curse under my breath, annoyed at myself for how much she affects me.

And then I flip Reid off and follow her anyway, like I always do. Like I always fucking will.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” I slide into a barstool beside her and signal for another beer. “One dance, no injuries, and you actually looked like you were having a good time.”

She huffs, turning her martini in her hand. “A good time? You mean enduring the longest three minutes of my life?”

I hum in response. “Sweetheart, you were eating it up.”

Zoe tilts her head, her eyes narrowed as she considers whether I deserve to live. Then she exhales, setting her glass down with more force than necessary.

“I just don’t see the appeal of all this.” She waves a hand around, gesturing toward the dance floor, where Eli is twirling Tamara in some romantic fanfare. The movement draws my attention to her nails, and I snort at what I see there.

A little pixelated bride and groom on each feature nail. And right beneath them, in neat block lettering: Game Over.

I reach for her hand, tipping it toward the light just to be sure.

She quirks a brow. “What?”

“Subtle,” I say, dragging my thumb over the design and down her knuckles before releasing her.

Her grin turns downright wicked. “Do you actually buy into that?”

I look over at Tamara and Eli, dancing like they’re the only two people in this room. It could be cringey, but it’s not. Not really.

Zoe looks at them as if she’s annoyed, but I know that look. The tightness in her jaw, the way she watches too long before turning away.

It’s not annoyance, it’s deflection.

I tip my beer back to cover my smirk. “You’re asking me if I buy into the marriage thing?”

“No.” She rolls her yes. “Love.”

The way she says it—flat and unimpressed, as if it’s the most overhyped product on the market—gets to me.

I glance over at Eli and Tamara again, completely wrapped up in each other. The moment is sweet, but it hits me like a puck to the ribs instead.

Because for the last few years, I’ve been looking at someone the same way Eli’s looking at Tamara, and she’s sitting right next to me. Oblivious. Sipping a martini and hiding behind her bulletproof brand of bravado.

I clear my throat. “You don’t believe in love?”

Zoe lets out a soft laugh as she swirls her drink. “I mean sure, love exists. But not like this.” She gestures toward the dancefloor, shaking her head. “Not in some epic, meant-to-be, let’s-promise-forever way.”

My stomach pulls tight. I should let this go, I really should. Instead, I shift to face her fully.

“Huh.”

Her eyes flick to mine. “What?”

“Just interesting, that’s all.”

“That I don’t believe in fairytales?”

“No.” I smirk. “That you think you’re too cool to want one.”

Zoe lets out a sharp laugh, tipping her head back.

“Oh, Walton, that’s cute.” She places a hand on my arm, mockingly sincere.

“But I’m good, thanks. I’ve got a dream job, great friends, and the ability to Irish exit any event I don’t want to be at.

” She leans in slightly, voice dropping.

“You ever notice how married people can’t do that? ”

I laugh along, but it doesn’t reach my chest.

Because it’s bullshit. All of it. She’s selling a lie on a performance loop. I bet she’s given this speech a hundred times before, and she’s trying to convince herself just as much as me.

She slowly slides the olive from her martini into her mouth before taking another sip, watching me over the rim of her glass.

“What now?”

I shrug, setting my beer down. “Nothing.”

Zoe narrows her eyes. “That’s a liar’s face.”

“Me? A liar? Rude.”

She raises one brow, which is all warning and no patience.

“I just think it’s funny,” I offer.

“ What’s funny?”

“You act like you don’t care about love, but you’re the most ride-or-die person I know.”

She freezes, and for a split second, the mask slips. It’s the smallest shift, but I catch it—the flicker of something raw and unguarded, a version of her I don’t see often. It’s gone just as fast, replaced with her usual sharp smirk, but I saw it.

Zoe leans in slightly, a slow grin spreading across her lips. “You psychoanalyzing me, Walton?”

“Just calling it how I see it.”

“Mm.” She sips her drink, considering me. “You really think I’m some secret romantic?”

I think you’re everything, and you don’t even realize it.

“I think you’re full of shit,” I grin. “And I think you’d Irish exit this conversation if I was wrong.”

She shrugs a shoulder. “Not everything’s that deep.”

“Maybe.” I let my gaze drag over her to soak her in, because God help me, I can’t stop looking at her tonight. “Or maybe you’re just really good at pretending it’s not.”

Zoe’s lips part to respond—probably with something sharp and devastating, maybe with something real.

“Zo! Chase! Your turn in the photo booth, let’s go!”

Charlie waves from across the room, standing next to the tiny, enclosed booth in the corner. Brooks is next to her, awaiting our response like he’s daring us to deny his pregnant wife-to-be anything she desires.

Zoe takes the out immediately, setting her drink down and clapping her hands together. “Yes, excellent! Time for chaos.”

She brushes past me, a little unsteady, but I don’t move right away. I just let my eyes trail after her. Because I was right. For a second, she let her mask slip.

Her hair swishes as she turns back over her shoulder, her smile pure mischief now. “You comin’, Walton?”

And God fucking help me, just like that, I’m hooked deep, sliding off my stool and yanked forward again.