Page 3

Chapter three

Zoe Carlson is staring at my mouth

Chase

Z oe stumbles into the photo booth first, giggling as she nearly topples onto the tiny bench, the several martinis in her system clearly doing their job. “This is already the worst idea of the night.”

I duck in after her, yanking the heavy curtain shut behind me. “Correction: best idea of the night.”

She hums. “Debatable.”

The booth is too small, which is a problem when Zoe talks with her hands, and I take up more space than necessary just to annoy her. Our knees bump, and her perfume clings to the air, so warm and sweet and dangerously familiar.

She’s still grinning, flushed from the gin in her martinis and the tension that’s been fueling her all night, and fuck it, I can’t stop looking at her.

The screen in front of us blinks: Ready? First photo in 3… 2… 1…

Zoe gasps. “Shit—”

Flash.

She looks unhinged. I look like a gaping idiot. Perfect.

The next countdown starts, and she recovers fast, throwing up peace signs while I point dramatically at her like she’s the star of the show.

Flash.

“We should do something chaotic,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows.

“I thought that was your default setting.”

Zoe smacks my arm. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” I chuckle.

The next countdown starts.

I don’t think, I just grab her, hoisting her by the hips up onto my lap. Her arms flail wide and eyes grow wide.

“What—”

She lands sideways, half-straddling me in a flurry of silky fabric and gasping laughter.

Flash.

She whacks my chest, but she’s breathless and still laughing, her hands gripping my shoulders for balance. “What the hell was that?”

“Problem?”

“Yeah, my problem is you’re a menace.”

“I’m a delight.”

Flash.

“Oh my god,” she groans, eyes flicking to the camera. “We need to ruin the next ones. If Tamara sees these—”

“Oh, she’s gonna see them.” I grin. “Eli, too.”

“Christ,” she mutters. “Fine. Time for ugly .”

Before I have time to tell her she couldn’t look remotely ugly in any realm of reality, the next countdown starts.

She purses her lips like a fish and crosses her eyes. I grab my ears and pull them wide.

Flash.

She shoves her fingers into my cheeks and mashes my face,

I grab her wrist and mock-bite her hand as she shrieks and curls into me.

Flash.

We’re breathless, too tangled up in this tiny booth, laughter still warm between us as the camera resets for a new round of photos.

Zoe grins, eyes bright with booze and mischief. “Okay, new plan.”

I tip my head, still trying to settle my pulse. “Oh, yeah?”

She leans in slightly, about to propose something truly unhinged.

“We should kiss.”

My brain short-circuits. “ What? ”

She nods towards the camera. “For the next round of photos.”

I register three things immediately.

She’s tipsy.

She’s fucking with me.

This is the worst idea I’ve ever loved.

I force a smirk. “You wanna kiss me that bad, Carlson?”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Please. I think we can both handle a dumb, meaningless kiss for the sake of comedy. It’s a joke, it’ll be funny.”

A joke. Right. That’s what this is, what it always is with us. Banter. Laughter and comedy and nothing too serious.

So this kiss should be no different.

Except I’ve thought about kissing her for years, and this is not how I imagined it panning out. I should say no, slide her off my lap with a funny quip, and go get another beer.

Instead, I lean in, dropping my voice to match hers.

“On three.”

Her brows lift slightly, as if she wasn’t expecting me to agree so easily.

“Fine.”

The countdown starts.

3…

She licks her lips, and my self-control unravels.

2…

Her eyes flit to my mouth, just briefly.

1.

Zoe surges forward at the same moment I do.

Flash.

Her lips press against mine, warm and soft and the exact right kind of impossible. She inhales sharply, like she wasn’t expecting this, wasn’t expecting me .

Holy fuck.

This is not funny. Definitely not a joke. Anything but meaningless.

My fingers twitch, screaming at me to grip her jaw, to stroke her pulse point, to deepen this and take it further. And I almost do, just for a second. Just long enough to press in before I catch myself and use every ounce of my willpower to rip my lips off hers.

The timer clicks noisily as it resets again and we stare at each other.

We’re too close, locked in the tightest space imaginable with no room for escape. Not that I’d want to.

Zoe laughs, but it’s quieter now, a breathless and unsteady sound skating warmth across my jaw. She shifts like she’s about to say something, about to deflect or make a joke and reset the moment. But she pauses.

Her fingers curl into my shoulders, and I feel the second she notices the closeness. The heat. The weight of it presses in, closing the gap between what we say we are and what we actually are.

She licks her lips, and my pulse plummets to my goddamn knees.

Zoe Carlson is staring at my mouth, and I should not be staring at hers.

I shouldn’t kiss her again. I’m not going to kiss her again. I’m not going to think about how I’ve spent years picturing our first kiss—how it would feel, how she’d taste. And how this doesn’t come close to what I want. What she deserves.

Flash.

I kiss her anyway.

Her breath catches, and my world tilts. Suddenly, I’m not thinking anymore. Just feeling, giving in to something I’ve kept locked up for too long.

She tastes like gin and citrus, sweet and sharp and something never meant to be mine, but fuck, I want it.

Every half-smirk, every eye-roll, every sharp-tongued retort I’ve spent the last few years teasing out of her. I want the way she trembles for half a second before she gives in when she’s irritated. Want the way she’s pulling me in instead of pushing me away, needing this just as much as I do.

Flash.

It’s hot and messy and desperate in a way that’s been clawing at me for years.

She exhales against me, and the sound alone sends something deep and molten straight to my cock. I don’t even realize I’ve tightened my grip on her waist, don’t register the way my fingers flex against satin, the way I tug her closer without a second thought.

But I do realize when she pulls me in, too, her nails scraping my nape, sending a sharp thrill down my spine.

Flash.

I’m fucked. Absolutely fucked.

Lost in her, groaning into her mouth, dragging her closer and tilting my head, deepening the kiss.

Flash.

I swear I hear her whisper my name, but maybe I imagine it. Maybe it doesn’t matter because all I can feel is her body against mine, heat against heat. All I can think is don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop —

My hands skate lower to grip her hips, fingers slipping through the slit in her dress onto her bare, warm skin. She moans softly, barely a sound at all, but it fucking melts me.

Flash.

The screen goes dark. Session complete.

We both go still, panting against each other, breathing the same sharp, uneven air.

Zoe blinks slowly, snapping herself out of the haze. I blink back at her, my brain still catching up to my body, still trying to make sense of what the hell just happened.

I know I could lean in and claim another one, that she’d let me take more, but I don’t. So instead, she leans back and laughs. A small, breathless, holy-shit-what-was-that laugh.

“Oh my god.” She groans, scrubbing a hand over her face. “We need alcohol. Immediately.”

Alcohol. Right.

Because clearly, that’s the problem here. Not the deflecting or the jokes thinly veiling this thing that’s been growing between us for years.

I blow out a breath, trying to get my pulse under control, trying to keep my hands from chasing after her when she shifts off my lap.

Zoe shoves at my chest, grin wide as she clambers off me and adjusts that scrap of satin she’s wearing. The same one I just had my hands all over. Under. Caressing the soft skin of her thigh.

“Come on, Walton. I need a drink, and we need to destroy those photos before Tamara weaponizes them.”

I shake my head, trying to reboot my entire existence. “We’re not destroying those photos.”

Zoe points a finger at me. “Yes, we fucking are.”

“I’m keeping them forever.”

“Oh my god,” she laughs, yanking open the curtain. “I need vodka.”

I follow her out, unsteady and still not breathing right, still feeling the ghost of her lips against mine and her nails scraping my skin.

My hands flex at my sides, because they’re missing something.

Missing her .

I hate it because this was supposed to be a joke, but there’s no way in hell she didn’t feel what I felt. I know it, she knows it. But she won’t admit it because she never does.

I sigh, watching her hips sway as she moves with purpose across the dance floor and back to the bar, as if nothing happened behind that curtain.

And I follow her, because when it comes to Zoe Carlson, I don’t have a fucking choice.