Page 3 of Sharing Shadow Secrets (High Five Novella #6)

T his house ... oh my God! I should say this gigantic fucking mansion .

It’s modern, expensive, and intimidating with a sleek steel exterior and massive windows.

Must be nice to have made billions on Bitcoin like Declan Kruk did.

One of the valet guys in a white polo heads toward my car, and I roll down my window.

“The party’s on the patio.” He hands me a ticket. “Walk straight through the house, and you’ll see everyone back there.”

“Thanks,” I manage, my heart rate spiking.

Nicholas could have helped a girl out by mentioning this wasn’t just a backyard barbecue.

A little warning would have been nice. I turn off the car, and the valet chuckles.

Right. Guess I didn’t need to do that. I’ve barely driven since moving to Chicago for college ten years ago. Never valeted a car before, either.

I grab my purse from the passenger seat and slide out.

Walking up the steps, my nerves are starting to build.

I’m not going to know anyone here. Well, maybe some people from High Five if they’re attending instead of working.

But really, I just need to find Nicholas and pitch him. That’s why I’m here.

Stepping quickly through the home, I inventory the art on the walls. Some pieces are modern while others feature people. Each piece makes me want to take a deeper look, but the party is outside, not here.

On the patio, the view of Geneva Lake steals my breath. Boats sprinkle the blue water. The place has to have over five hundred feet of private beach, plus a landscaped yard rolling right down to it.

The sun beats down, and I’m grateful for the canopy that extends over most of the back area.

There’s a breeze that’s making me rethink my sundress again, but I’ve been wearing shorts under dresses for years now, in the event of a strong gust. I’ve always thought it was rude to wear sunglasses while talking to someone, so I push mine up, letting them double as a headband.

Scanning the crowd, I sigh in relief. Everyone’s dressed like me. Thank God we all got the casual barbecue memo.

The catering, though? Definitely not casual. There are cater-waiters passing trays of appetizers, and a massive seafood tower is on one of the tables. Not a barbecue in sight.

I spot troughs along the side of the patio and assume they’re full of drinks. I need water. I need to chill. While scanning the crowd, there’s still no sign of Nicholas.

I grab a bottle from the trough and crack it open, taking a long sip as a fucking model starts walking straight toward me. He looks about my age. Late twenties or early thirties. Brown hair, blue eyes, cut jawline—tall, very tall. And why is he staring at me?

He smiles, leans down to grab a water, and my eyes can’t help themselves thoroughly checking him out. Collared button-down, tan shorts, loafers. Loafers? Okay, so he’s probably a douche.

“Pretty fancy barbecue,” he says, lifting his water bottle for a sip.

“I know, right? At least I’m not the only one thinking it.”

His eyes flick down me, and I’m not mad about it.

“How do you know Nicholas?” I ask.

“I don’t.”

I squint at him. “What do you mean?”

“I’m crashing,” he says with a smirk like he’s enjoying the reveal far too much.

I laugh, intrigued. “Crash barbecues often?”

“This would be a first.”

“Being at a house like this ... that’s a first for me.”

He nods, then extends his hand. “I’m Brandon.”

“Taylor.” I take his hand, shaking it. Strong grip. Warm. Why am I noticing that?

“Very corporate handshake,” he teases. “What do you do for a living?”

“Social media.”

He cocks his head. “Yeah? With a handshake like that, I assumed you were a lawyer or something.”

I giggle, amused that my handshake gives off corporate energy.

“I work with Nicholas. His bar, High Five—it’s my account.”

I scan the crowd for Nicholas and still don’t see him.

“Well, you’re crushing it,” he says, and my gaze returns to Brandon.

“You follow them?” I ask, intrigued.

“I don’t do social media, but my friend Patrick—” he points at a guy with a beard, then points to the brunette next to him, “met his girlfriend Rachel at High Five and told me they’ve got like one hundred thousand TikTok followers.”

“It’s over one hundred and fifty now,” I say, feeling that familiar pride. “What do you mean you don’t do social media?”

“I’m trying to have a better relationship with dopamine.”

“Aren’t we all?” I say with a light laugh. “I barely post on my own accounts. I’m not one to be the center of attention. But I really enjoy building online community. And converting it to real-life activations.”

“Activations?”

“Industry word for events.” I wink. Why did I just wink? Hopefully, it didn’t look like I was glitching or awkwardly twitching.

“Everyone needs to spend more time in the real world,” he says, then glances around. “This is an odd barbecue, right?”

“Considering nothing is being barbecued, yes.”

His lips twitch with amusement, and then it’s silent between us. The crowd keeps growing, and the hum of conversation buzzes in the air. I’m enjoying talking with him and want to keep it going. “So, what do you do?” I ask, inching closer.

“I manage relationships.”

“Vague.” I squint at him, curious if that means he golfs all day, entertaining clients, or if he’s more like me, in the weeds with clients day to day.

He smiles, and Brandon is hot—very hot.

“I work at Cryptoball.”

Cryptoball. Declan Kruk’s company. I bet he golfs all day then.

“Are you, like, house sitting?” I ask, since he said he doesn’t know Nicholas and is crashing this party.

“No. I’m staying at my family’s house.” He points down the shoreline to another mansion. So Brandon’s a rich kid. Of course the Crypto-bro is. Now the loafers make sense.

“Rachel is best friends with Nicholas’s girlfriend, Emily. She told me I could come.”

“Nice. Emily seems great. Nicholas is so cute when he talks about her.”

I think back to a past virtual meeting, the way his voice softened and shoulders lowered when he thanked me for forcing him to dress up as Santa. Then the way he blushed when he shared how the gimmick got his crush, Emily, to sit on his lap.

A man has never been so smitten with me.

“I’ve never met either of them,” Brandon whispers in my ear. Why is he whispering? Why is that sexy?

“Well, every party needs a crasher,” I deadpan, trying to lower my heart rate and push down the butterflies from that whisper. “At least you’re not the kind that will steal something.”

“How do you know I won’t steal anything?” he asks coyly.

“The fact that you already have a mansion.”

He chuckles. “We could steal something.”

“We?” I shake my head. “I’d go to jail, and you’d magically get the charges dropped.”

He takes another sip, like he’s pondering what to say. “Why are you assuming I’d leave you hanging?”

“Because you don’t know me.”

“I’d like to.” He smirks, and shit. Blatant flirting from Brandon—I like it.

“I generally don’t like guys in loafers,” I sass, looking down at his shoes. And this, right here, is why you’re single. He gave you an in and you responded with an insult.

“Well, I said I was done with brunettes.”

I bite my lip, loving his quick wit. “I don’t think rich guys are all they’re cracked up to be,” I say with a slow smile.

“Does this usually work for you?”

“What?”

“Being an asshole,” he says with a wide grin, poking my shoulder.

I laugh, and his eyes rake down me. I shouldn’t feel self-conscious about him checking me out, but my brain is wondering if he’s into thick girls.

I’m a size ten and look like a pear with boobs.

My thighs have touched since I can remember, another reason why shorts under dresses is the move in the summer.

Chub rub is the worst.

Meanwhile, Brandon looks like the kind of guy who lives in the gym. His eyes meet mine again, holding my gaze.

“What?” I whisper.

“We’re being very flirty before lunch,” he says, looking down, almost like he’s nervous now.

“You just called me an asshole.” I playfully swat his arm. “Is that how you flirt?”

“Me flirting is telling you that I don’t mind it because I like being bossed around.” He bites his lip.

Oh my God! I giggle nervously. Well, now I’m sweating from more than this July heat.

“So, did you come over here to get water or to talk to me?” I ask in my sexy voice.

“I wanted water and am enjoying the company.”

Now, we’re both smirking at each other.

“Are you another Bitcoin billionaire?” I ask, breaking this heated moment.

“My dad is.”

“Is he single?”

There you go ruining it again. Coming across like a fucking gold digger.

Brandon’s amused though, softly chuckling. “He’s always looking for his next wife.”

“Is that how you roll?”

“He and I have nothing in common,” he says tightly, his shoulders stiffening.

“Sore subject, got it.”

He shrugs, and I need to focus on today’s priority: winning Nicholas’s business. Not bantering with this random hot guy.

“Taylor, right?” a woman’s voice distracts me from this moment, and I turn to see the red-headed server from High Five.

“Yeah. Claire?” I think that’s her name. I hope it is.

“Yeah.” She curiously looks over at Brandon.

“Brandon. Brandon Dubois.”

Dubois. Is his dad Kent Dubois? Holy shit. He is a billionaire’s son. Kent Dubois is always in the news. Naming buildings after himself. Donating art. From what I’ve read, he basically invented the concept of hedge funds.

Claire sways, then says, “Nice to meet you,” and turns away.

Brandon raises his eyebrows, and I agree. “Everything about today is weird. Also, so douchey of you to say your last name.” I swat his arm. “Sorry, this is how I flirt.”

“I like it … and it's a habit. Saying my full name.”

We’re smiling at each other, and I’m very intrigued. I want to know more about Brandon Dubois.