“Fuck yes, that’s what he gets,” Roxy says, lifting her glass in the air and clinking it against mine. “May his blue balls swell to the size of grapefruits.”
Delaney winces and sips her rosé. “Okay, well, that’s kinda hot and kinda messed up.”
I arch a brow at her. “Messed up? How?”
She shrugs, looking between me and Roxy like she’s the neutral judge in a petty war. “I mean, it’s kinda obvious he’s got a thing for you.”
I nearly choke on my vodka. “Delaney, no. You’ve got it twisted. Finlay doesn’t want me. He wants the idea of me. The one girl who told him no and still isn’t drooling over his multi-million-dollar contract and absurdly perfect jawline.”
“And his arms,” Roxy mutters, smirking. “Let’s not pretend his arms didn’t just drag us back to TikTok thirst traps.”
“You’re not wrong,” I say with a sigh, “but still. He’s all about the chase. If I ever said, ‘Sure, QB, let’s do this,’ he’d ghost me before the sheets cooled.”
“Guys like him are all flash and no follow-through,” Roxy agrees. “Let’s be honest, he’s only this interested because you’re the one thing he can’t sign, throw, or fuck.”
“To hell with Finlay Reed,” I say, standing up like I’m about to lead a revolution. “We’re here to have fun. He’s not hijacking my night. Now get your asses up. It’s dance time.”
We hit the dance floor and begin to move. The bass is thumping, lights strobe across the crowd, and sweat-slicked bodies move in time with the beat. This is where I breathe. Where the world gets quiet and all that matters is the rhythm pulsing through my veins.
Roxy bumps into a guy and flashes him an unapologetic smile.
“I hate dancing with you sometimes,” she shouts over the music. “You make it look so effortless, and I’m out here bowling over people like a drunk toddler on roller skates.”
“It’s not about looking good,” I laugh. “It’s about feeling good.”
She flips me off playfully as she sways her hips, and I grin, letting myself sink into the music. The three of us dance like we’ve got zero responsibilities and all the time in the world.
It’s exactly what I needed. Just me and my girls. No pressure. No rules. No quarterbacks.
Except I can’t stop thinking about him.
And I hate it.
I thought maybe telling them about the lap dance would get it out of my system, but the opposite happened. Now I can’t stop thinking about it. About how solid his chest felt beneath my hands. About how his jaw clenched every time I rolled my hips. About the sounds he made, the way his fists gripped the couch, how his body pulsed with restraint.
I should’ve walked away feeling powerful. Untouchable.
I was in control, but somehow, I left that room feeling like I’d lost something.
My cool, maybe. Or my damn mind.
“Nova,” Delaney says, tugging my arm, “Roxy went to get shots. Let’s go back to the table for a bit.”
I nod, letting her lead me off the floor. “You alright?” she asks as we push through the crowd.
“Of course. Why?”
“You just seemed somewhere else.”
Yeah, well. His name is Finlay Reed, and he’s apparently renting space in my head without a lease.
“I’m good. Promise,” I say, linking my arm through hers. “Just a momentary lapse in brain function. Might’ve been the vodka.”
Or the lap dance.
Or the part of me that liked the way he looked at me.
But instead of saying that, I force a smile and keep walking. Because tonight is about girls, glitter, and getting over him.
