1. Nina #2
“Nina,” Evren says, sitting in the seat next to me. My laughter dries up the second he says my name in that way. Soft and deliberate, almost like a touch, his Turkish accent wrapping around the syllables like he’s breathing new life into them.
I freeze, my heart stuttering as the space between us hums with tension. My skin prickles with awareness as the space beside me feels suddenly too small, shrinking with his presence .
I glance toward him, slow and deliberate, every nerve in my body suddenly on high alert.
The air thickens, suffocatingly so, as if his very presence demands to be felt.
His scent—spicy, woodsy, with a hint of something else I can’t place—wraps around me, sinking into my lungs, making it impossible to ignore him.
And then his knee brushes against mine under the table. Just a light touch, barely there, but it’s enough to send a jolt of electricity through me, rooting me to the spot. My breath catches, heart pounding in response to something I desperately wish I didn’t feel.
What the hell is wrong with me? Why does he—of all people—have the power to make my body react like this? It’s infuriating, unacceptable, and completely unforgivable.
Evren Kaya stands for everything I despise. He’s polished perfection, with his designer suit and his expensive haircut. I bet he’s never known a single difficult day in his cushiony life.
I grew up fighting for every scrap, every inch, every ounce of who I am. The world he lives in—wealthy, pristine, predictable—is everything I’m not. The very idea of someone like him having any kind of sway over me is absurd.
“Evren,” I say sharply, my voice cutting through the air like a blade. “You’re in the wrong seat.”
His gaze locks on to mine. The weight of it pulls at me, like a physical force I can’t shake off, even though I’m trying, hard. My skin prickles, and I grip the edge of my seat to stay composed.
“I think,” he says, his voice low, “I can read my own name card.” He nods toward the stupid piece of card stock in front of his plate.
“And that name card can easily be placed somewhere else.”
“Why? Are you scared to sit next to me?”
“Scared?” I scoff. “Of you? Please.” I roll my eyes for effect, forcing myself to lean back in my chair, praying my dress doesn’t spontaneously unravel with the movement.
“Then why the sudden need to rearrange the seating chart?”
“Because I like to keep my personal space, and you’re crowding it.” I give his leg a pointed look, a leg that’s far too close to mine.
His lips twitch, eyes gleaming with something too knowing, too damn self-assured. “Is that so?” He brushes his leg against mine for a heartbeat before pulling away. “Unfortunately, we can’t change the name cards.”
“Of course we can. A little swap and done. No one would know.”
“But there are people whose job was to create this seating chart. Why give them more work after they’ve spent weeks perfecting it?”
“Ohhh, I see,” I say, refusing to acknowledge that he has a point. “You’re a rule follower.”
“And you’re clearly not. ”
“Is it so obvious?”
“Only if you’re looking for it.”
“And what?” I scoff. “You see me?”
“I always see you.”
“Always? That’s a bold claim.”
“Bold but true.” He leans closer to me, as if about to tell me a secret. “Trust me, I’d notice if you weren’t around.”
I snatch my glass of champagne and take a hefty gulp, hating the flicker of curiosity his words spark. Nope, not going there. I need a subject change, and fast.
“Whatever you say,” I reply, brushing it off. “So…is the off-season basically just charity season for you guys?”
“It appears that way, yes.”
I frown, confused by his answer. It’s the beginning of March and he’s acting like he doesn’t know what the off-season entails.
“What?” he asks. “It’s my first real off-season as an owner.”
“Ah, yes, the grueling life of an owner. It must be tough balancing charity events with all the time you spend in your private box.”
“You’d be surprised how exhausting it is making everything look this easy.”
Did he…just make a joke? No, that can’t be. It’s Evren, he’s as stoic as they come.
“It must be so hard being you,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“I can only imagine the emotional toll of picking the perfect tie for each event. Oh wait, let me guess, you don’t wear anything but black ties.
” I’ve literally never seen him wear anything but black suits, white shirts, and black ties.
It’s painfully boring and minimalist and the total opposite of me.
He makes a sound—something between a huff and a chuckle—as he takes a slow sip of his champagne.
As he sets his glass down, I shift in my seat, instinctively trying to create a few inches of distance between us.
If a mere brush of our legs can ignite sparks through layers of fabric, I definitely don’t want his arm anywhere near my bare skin.
As I shift, a sharp pinch pierces my back.
Fucking safety pins. I try to hide my wince, but I must fail because his gaze narrows, locking in on me with unnerving precision.
“Are you okay?” he demands.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You winced.”
“I’m fine. My dress is just a little uncomfortable.”
“Hmm.” His gaze sweeps over me, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every inch. “You look stunning tonight.”
The word stunning hangs in the air between us, heavy and electric. I search his face, half expecting a smirk, or some tell that he’s joking. But I can’t find anything except the usual intensity from him.
I blink, caught off guard. Did he just compliment me? What’s up with him tonight? He’s acting…different.
“Did you make it yourself?” he asks, nodding to my dress.
“I make everything I wear.” I lean closer to him and lower my voice. “And there’s no need to give me fake compliments. No one’s paying attention. You don’t have to pretend to be nice.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, just a hint. “Do you really think I’d waste my time pretending and giving out fake praise to you?”
“You never know.” I lift my shoulder, trying to act nonchalant.
“Believe what you want about me, but I don’t lie.”
I bite back a scoff. Of course he lies. It’s probably in his job description as a billionaire to lie. There’s no way he reached his level of success without bending the truth or manipulating a few people along the way.
“Nina,” Elodie says, drawing my attention back to her and saving me from having to respond. “I forgot to tell you. Hunter and I decided to have a post-elopement party at the end of May, and I was wondering if you could make my dress?”
“Pfft, you don’t even have to ask,” I say breezily, even though inside, my heart races with panic.
I haven’t been able to create anything new in weeks.
Probably because of the move to a new city.
Yeah, it must be that and not because I haven’t been able to open Instagram since my jacket went viral and thousands of people started demanding I sell my stuff while thousands of others judge and scrutinize everything on my page.
“Perfect,” Elodie says. “Let’s meet soon to go over design ideas? ”
“Only if we can turn it into a girls’ night.”
“Deal.” Elodie laughs and then shifts her attention to Evren, who has not so subtly been eavesdropping this entire time.
“Just so you know,” she says to him, “you’re invited to the party, and I expect you to be there.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He stares at me the entire time he speaks, each word a deliberate caress against my skin.
Why the hell is he looking at me like that? And, more importantly, why the hell am I curious to find out?