"Yeah. Knock 'em dead."
I smiled, feeling a real spark of happiness. "Did you invite your friends?" I asked, trying—and failing—not to sound too eager.
He chuckled. "Relax, kid. They're coming. Ace too."
At the mention of Ace, my stomach flipped dangerously. I hadn't seen him properly since... everything. Since the photo shoot. Since the weird tension that wrapped around us tighter every time we were in the same room.
Tonight, though, I was determined to forget all of that. I was going to feel alive.
The backyard was already buzzing when I walked out. Music thumped through the speakers, people laughing, drinking, dancing. A mix of Jasper's friends—rowdy, half-drunk frat boys—and some models from the agency my mother had forced me into. They were tall, gorgeous, and I instantly felt like a little girl playing dress-up.
But it was my night. I pasted on a bright smile and threw myself into the chaos.
"Happy birthday, Brit!" one of Jasper's friends shouted, handing me a red solo cup. I had no idea what was in it. I didn’t even care.
I danced. I laughed. I even sang terribly off-key when someone shoved a microphone into my hand. For the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn’t "the mayor’s daughter" or "the model" or "the project."
I was just Brittany.
Somewhere between songs, after too many sips from that suspicious cup, I slipped away from the crowd to catch my breath. I wandered into the dimly lit hallway inside the house, the music now a distant thud behind me. I leaned against the wall, closing my eyes, letting my head spin just a little.
"Running away from your own party?"
I blinked, turning toward the voice.
Ace stood a few feet away, a bottle of beer dangling from his fingers, that lazy smirk pulling at his lips.
God, he looked good. Dark jeans, a simple black t-shirt that clung to every muscle. His hair was messy, like he’d run his hands through it too many times. There was a scruff along his jaw that made him look older, rougher.
"Maybe," I said, crossing my arms over my chest. "Needed a breather. You know, from all the drunk love I'm getting out there."
He laughed, the sound low and warm. "Looks like you're the star of the night."
I smiled. "Well, it is my birthday."
He pushed off the wall, stepping closer. "You having fun at least?"
"Yeah," I said, voice a little breathless. "Thanks for coming. Really."
"Wouldn't miss it," he said softly, his eyes lingering on mine a little too long.
A beat of silence stretched between us, not uncomfortable exactly... but charged.
"You know," I said, emboldened by the alcohol humming in my veins, "I used to have the biggest crush on you."
His eyebrows shot up, amused. "Used to?"
"Maybe still do," I teased, laughing nervously.
He stared at me, and something changed in his eyes—something darker, heavier.
"Brit..." he said, voice rough, almost warning.
"What?" I whispered.
He moved closer, slowly, like he was fighting it but losing.
"Don't look at me like that," he muttered, his voice tight.
