FOUR
"Would you quit it already?" her friend giggles. "You only turn twenty-one once."
"Exactly," Eve says flatly. "And that’s kind of the whole problem."
"So let me spoil you, drama queen! Stop acting like you're being dragged to your own funeral."
"I don’t like feeling like a mooch."
"You’re not a mooch. You're a birthday girl. So sit back, relax, and let’s go full chaos mode. I want messy decisions and maybe even a regrettable tattoo."
Eve groans. "Please stop talking."
I stay perfectly still, listening through the shimmering curtain of lights between us. I wasn’t expecting this tonight. Seeing her earlier had already stirred up enough ghosts.
Eve Stone—once Ivy Stone was supposed to be a relic from my past, frozen forever as a spunky, scraped-knee kid with a crooked ponytail and big dreams.
Now?
Now she’s a woman. A stunning, knock-the-air-out-of-your-lungs woman.
I clench my jaw and grip my knee tightly. These thoughts feel inappropriate at best. But tell that to the hard-on that’s been trying to negotiate its way out of my pants since she walked by.
“What do you mean, ‘candidates’?” Eve asks, voice wary.
“Um, hello? We are finding you a man tonight. You’re not walking out of here with your V-card still intact.”
I inhale sharply. That little detail practically short-circuits my brain. Eve. A virgin. That bit of information hits me like a ton of bricks—delicious, wildly inappropriate bricks.
"I knew I shouldn't have come," Eve mutters. "I signed up for cocktails, not an ambush."
"Is this a ‘waiting for Mr. Right’ thing? Because, honey, he does not exist."
"I’m not looking for Mr. Right," she says. "Just... Mr. Respects-My-Boundaries."
"Adorable."
"I’m serious, Tay. I’m not trying to have some epic love story. I just want someone who knows what they’re doing and won’t treat me like a damn checkbox."
My heart pounds harder than it should. I shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but I can’t bring myself to move. Not when she sounds so... unsure. Vulnerable. Like she’s trying to convince herself it’s not a lost cause.
"You told me your first time was awful," Eve continues, her voice barely above a whisper.
Taylor snorts. "Girl, it was a disaster. He didn’t even get my bra off before he was already apologizing."
"That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. I want it to actually mean something. Or at least not suck."
That does something to me—something dangerous. There’s this fierce, unshakable part of me that wants to stand up and tell her I could be that guy. I could show her what it’s supposed to feel like. I could take my time, treat her right.
And then reality slaps me upside the head.
Get a grip. She's too young, and this whole situation is way too messy. She’s off-limits. So why the hell can’t I stop picturing that skirt riding up her thighs?
Taylor sniffs. “Well, good luck on your noble quest, babe. Men are all trash anyway. That’s why I stick to camming—at least on livestream, they can’t paw at me.”
"You’re seriously no help—wait, where are you going?"
"Scouting. Gonna find you someone with at least nine inches of personality."
"Taylor Green, I am begging you not to."
Her friend laughs. "Relax, I’m just handing my card to our server. I’ll be right back. Don’t move."
"You are the actual worst."
"Love you too, sugarplum."
I hear Taylor’s heels click away, and Eve lets out a sigh that sounds like her soul just deflated. “Can this night please stop getting weirder?”
That’s my cue. My mouth is already forming the words before my brain can issue a warning.
I slide out of my booth and step into hers, dropping into the seat beside her with a calm, smug grin.
"Well, would you look at that," I say smoothly. "Fate really knows how to time an entrance."
She lets out a startled yelp, her arms instinctively flying up to shield her chest. Her face flushes a deep crimson, a mix of embarrassment and fluster lighting up her stunning, mismatched eyes.
Heterochromia—one blue, one hazel speckled with blue. I remember how much it used to bother her. Some brat in grade school would tease her until she cried. But now? Those eyes are mesmerizing.
“W-What are you d-doing here?” she stammers. “God, how much of that did you hear?”
I keep my tone neutral. “Hear what?” The lie comes easily. She looks like she might crawl under the table if I admit I caught every word. Which, of course, I did.
Her shoulders sink slightly as she looks away. There’s a nervousness about her, a vulnerability she’s clearly trying to mask.
Her fingers fidget with the hem of her dress, tugging it down in a futile attempt to hide more of herself. “Seriously. What are you doing here?” she asks again, quieter this time.
“Just wrapped up a meeting.”
She frowns, puzzled. “In a club?”
“I have my reasons.”
She raises a brow. “Am I not allowed to know them without signing a non-disclosure agreement first?”
That almost earns a smile from me. Eve always had fire. Still does.
Across the mezzanine, two guys lean out of their booth, eyeing her in a way that turns my stomach. They’re not subtle.
Whispering, smirking, clearly undressing her with their eyes. Their gaze lingers too long on her bare legs, and I catch the way she folds in on herself under the weight of it. She’s uncomfortable. I see it. Feel it.
Something tightens in my chest—sharp and possessive.
Without a word, I slide off my jacket and settle it over her lap. “What the hell are you wearing? You look like you got attacked by a flamingo.”
She exhales a soft laugh. “Not the first time I’ve heard that tonight.”
That sound, soft and sweet crawls under my skin. My body reacts instinctively, and I curse myself. I’m not thinking clearly. Not with her this close.
She smells like coconut and warm beaches, and the faint freckles scattered over her nose pull my gaze in like a map of constellations.
She’s effortlessly beautiful. Delicate, even. Something about her reminds me of Audrey Hepburn—timeless grace wrapped in the wrong outfit, likely borrowed from her louder, wilder friend.
The dress doesn’t suit her. That elegant black number she wore earlier felt far more natural on her.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to take her over my desk earlier and remind her what a real consequence feels like for mouthing off. But knowing who she is now changes everything. That door’s closed, locked tight. Has to be.
Movement catches my eye, those same two frat boys approach us like a pair of dogs sniffing blood. They’re undeterred by my presence, which is a mistake they’re about to regret.
“Hey, sweetheart,” one of them says, the gold chains around his neck catching the light. “Wanna dance? You look like you're dying of boredom with this guy.”
I don’t flinch. His words mean nothing to me. Just noise.
Eve’s jaw tightens. She glances at me, then back at them. “No, thank you,” she says firmly. “I’m waiting for my friend.”
Her voice is steady. Controlled. She might be nervous, but she’s holding her ground. And that, more than anything, makes me proud.
“She can come with us, too,” the guy presses, his voice oozing entitlement. “Come on, sweetheart. Lighten up. Let’s have a little fun.”
“She’s already said no,” I reply, my voice low and even. “Take the hint. Move along.”
Predictably, he puffs up like a rooster in a fight. Boys like him always do. “How about you mind your own business, old man?”
I rise to my full height, unhurried, in complete control. I tower over him—two, maybe three inches taller and stare him down like the insignificant pest he is. “I said: walk. Away.”
Before it can escalate further, a bouncer appears at my side. “Mr. Vane. Is there a problem here?”
“Not with me,” I say calmly, “but they’re harassing the lady.”
The bouncer’s tone turns sharp. “Understood. I’ll deal with them right now.”
Gold Chains snorts, clearly thinking this is still a joke. “What the hell? Are you serious?”
His friend grabs his arm, panic blooming across his face. “Wait—did he say Vane? As in Ryder Vane?” His complexion pales. “Shit. Dude. Apologize. Now. Don’t piss him off.”
Chet still looks confused. “Who the hell is—?”
“The Ryder Vane,” his friend hisses. “Director of Walk Through Fire. Irredeemable Cretins? He’s a big deal, you idiot.”
I regard them for a moment, eyes steady. “Let me guess,” I say slowly. “You’re both actors.”
Chet clenches his jaw. “Yeah, so what?”
“I figured. Everyone in this city’s either an actor or trying to be.” I lean forward slightly. Close enough that he can feel the weight of my stare. He won’t swing. I can see it in his body language, he doesn’t have the guts.
He’s all talk.
“This is what’s going to happen,” I say quietly, just for them. “You’re going to apologize to Eve for being disgusting. Then you’re going to return to your booth and stay there. If you don’t, I’ll make two calls—only two and I promise you won’t get within a mile of another casting office again. Understood?”
“Crystal,” the other guy says quickly, already dragging his friend away. “Really sorry, miss. Hope you have a great night.”
I don’t bother looking at them again. Watching Chet shrink under the weight of his own embarrassment is reward enough. When I finally turn back to Eve, I expect frustration. Maybe a sharp remark.
But that’s not what I see.
Her eyes are wide, lips parted slightly, and there’s something unmistakable in her expression. Her posture has shifted—she’s leaning forward, gaze locked on mine with an intensity that makes my pulse stir.
She’s turned on.
I should leave. I need to leave.
“Thank you,” she whispers, breathless.
“If they come near you again, tell the bouncer,” I say tightly. Then I turn on my heel and walk away.
It isn’t until I’m behind the wheel, the engine rumbling to life, that I realize my jacket is still draped across her lap. I could have it replaced—tailor-made, sure, but Hugo Boss will make another.
Doesn’t matter.
At least she’s covered. At least I know her skin is shielded from leering eyes.
And somehow, that thought soothes something raw in me.