Page 46 of Sharing Shadow Secrets (High Five Novella #6)

E ven though this lake house has at least ten bathrooms, Morgan, Gwen, and I are crammed into the jack-and-jill one between their rooms, getting ready for the Halloween party.

“I think I should skip the tights,” I say, squinting at my reflection.

The nurse dress is tight in all the wrong places, and the pink wig is already making my forehead itch.

At least the red platform tennis shoes are cute and comfortable .

But it’s the tights that are giving me pause.

“Or does it look sluttier without them? I want least slutty.”

“If you wanted least slutty , you wouldn’t have bought a slutty nurse costume,” Morgan says without looking up, dragging thick black eyeliner across her lid.

She’s committed to the bit tonight—full Avril Lavigne cosplay and ready to tell anyone who’ll listen that she’s the real Avril, not the body double, which is one of the many conspiracy theories she subscribes to.

“I’m visual,” Gwen says, already zipped into a pleather catsuit as she curls her hair. “Take them off.”

I kick off the red shoes and peel off the tights, tossing them onto the counter. In the mirror, my bare thighs feel … too big. I tug the hem of the dress down an inch and try to ignore the voice in my head nitpicking every angle.

The girls glance over and nod.

“No tights,” they say in unison.

They wouldn’t lead me astray, and I let them outvote my insecurities.

“The van Patrick booked is picking you all up in less than an hour,” I remind them, sliding my shoes back on. “I’ll try to reserve a table, but no promises.”

They wave me off as I leave, but the minute I’m alone, my phone is back in my hand. I check my email for what has to be the fiftieth time today.

Still no signed contract.

S tepping into High Five, the decorations bring a smile to my face and lower my anxiety about all of the things that could possibly go wrong tonight.

The decorations are perfect, and I’m proud of the team for following my instructions.

I mean, I did make them as idiot-proof as possible, complete with a Pinterest board.

Red lightbulbs cast a moody glow on the wall opposite the bar. Spiderwebs stretch across the liquor shelves. Each table has a black tablecloth and a battery-powered mini candelabra. It’s cheesy in the best way. Atmospheric. Instagrammable.

Aaron is behind the bar in some sort of rugged outdoorsy getup—cargo vest, floppy hat, boots. I raise an eyebrow.

“Jurassic Park?” I guess.

“Nope,” he says with a laugh. “It’s a couple’s costume.”

I hum, but he doesn’t follow it up with another clue. I point to the drink dispenser he’s filling with cranberry juice. “Is that the Vampire’s Kiss?”

“Sure is. Cranberry juice, raspberry vodka, and black raspberry liqueur.”

“It sounds delicious,” I say, even though I won’t be drinking. Not tonight. I pull out my phone and start filming clips of the decor for an event hype post.

It’s 6:47 p.m. Doors open in thirteen minutes. Kyle should be here any second.

Taylor

I want you to come in the back when you get here. Do not go through the front door.

Kyle

I almost crashed my car reading that.

Oh my God. My cheeks flame.

Taylor

Sorry! Didn’t think about how that sounded. I want you to be a surprise. There are already people out front.

Phone in hand, I head to the back door, trying to breathe through the tightness in my chest. The place looks great.

The playlist is set. But my brain won’t stop cycling through everything that could still go wrong—and the executed contract that hasn’t landed in my inbox.

The work day is over. Now it’ll be Monday at the earliest. I sigh, frustrated that Brandon and I won’t be official this weekend.

I refresh my email one more time like something might magically appear in the next three seconds. Nothing. I tap the screen off and look out the door’s window. My heart jumps.

Kyle pulls up in an old, silver sedan, and even through the windshield, I catch the sharp line of his jaw. He’s stupidly hot. As he steps out in jeans and a black T-shirt that clings to his chest, I can’t help but think, Damn . No effort, just sex appeal.

“Need any help?” I ask, pushing the door open.

He shuts the driver’s side door and turns toward me, pausing.

His gaze sweeps over me—taking me in, head to toe.

When his eyes meet mine again, I stare. It’s a lingering stare that’s been going on for too long.

My skin goes warm, feeling an energy building between us before I look down, breaking our eye contact.

“Girl Taylor is shorter than I was anticipating,” he says teasingly.

My brain fumbles. “Need any help?” I repeat and then feel so weird that I just asked the same question again. But I don’t know what to make of the chemistry between us.

He pops the back door open and pulls out a small handheld steamer. “Can you carry this? I got everything else.”

“What do you need it for?”

“The cape. It wrinkles easily.”

Duh. Why is your brain short circuiting?

“Also, if you want to use the steamer for the backdrop, feel free,” he says with a smile.

“Already done,” I say, taking the handle. “But thanks.”

As we walk into High Five, I feel his gaze brush over me again. Slower this time. I’m so confused about what’s going on. He can’t be into me. Can he?