Page 65 of She's Like the Wind

Someone was playing a slow jazz version ofToxicon a saxophone. It was chaotic and dreamy and precisely what the organizers, one of whom was me, wanted.

Bourbon flowed.

Glitter floated.

Everyone sparkled.

Aurelie was backstage, rallying models, snapping her fingers, and shouting in French when someone mislaid a feather fan.

I caught glimpses of Gage throughout the night.

He helped move chairs, adjusted lighting without being asked, smiled at people,andsaid nothing to me. He didn’t try to get close or corner me in some back hallway with an apology rehearsed to death.

“What’s he doing here?” I demanded when Aurelie came by with a bottle of water for me.

“Who?”

“Aurelie,” I warned.

She arched a brow, amusement flickering in her gaze. “He’s helping out.”

“Why?”

“BecauseI asked him to.”

“Why would you do that?” My hands were fists on my hips, my chin jutted out in challenge.

“’Cause he begged me to help win you back, and I thought we could use the help.”

I closed my eyes for a moment and then gave her a withering look. “Are you out of your freaking mind?” I demanded tightly.

She bobbed her head in agreement. “I think so.”

“You’re a pain in my ass, Aurelie.”

“Let’s get the show moving, baby cakes. I’m ready for my close up.” Aurelie chuckled as she smoothed the silk chemise she was wearing—a bold crimson ensemble cut on the bias that clung to her and shimmered like sin.

Black lace framed the deep V neckline, trailing down over her curves like ivy, and a matching silk robe hung loose from her shoulders, the sleeves fluttering as she moved. Her braids were piled high, her lips painted wine-dark, and her heels sparkled like they had their own agenda.

“If you weren’t one of my models, I’d kill you.” I gave her a look that could’ve curdled milk.

She made kissy sounds. “Let’s go shake some ass, baby.”

Before I could tell her what she could do with her ass, I saw Jonah make his way toward me. He was in casual linen pants and a white shirt. He looked like he was strolling the streets of Havana.

“I’m sorry, I’m late.” He brushed his lips against my cheek.

“You’re here,” I replied. “That’s what counts.”

His gaze fell on someone behind me. I guessed it was Gage because Jonah looked amused as hell.

A server walked by with drinks, and he picked up two glasses of sparkling wine with a slice of blood orange floating in it like a sunset and smiled.

He handed me mine and held his glass up. “To a night that smells like sweat, sin, and success.”

I clinked my glass against his. “Amen.”

“Nervous?” he asked when he saw how wound up I was.