Chapter Sixteen
Nora
The line outside the club snaked halfway down the block—a velvet-roped gauntlet of black leather and people working overtime on their “I belong here” expressions.
I paused on the sidewalk for a heartbeat, letting the city’s roar press in against my skin—the frantic blare of horns, the jagged edge of laughter, and the distant, lonely wail of a siren.
Emma’s parting words rang in my head, clear as a bell: You look like a movie star, Nora. Now walk like one.
So I did.
I let my heels click a steady rhythm against the pavement, my hair pinned into a sophisticated crown that felt entirely too heavy for my head.
The dress hugged every curve my friends had insisted needed “proper presentation”—a phrase that still made me want to roll my eyes—but the effect was undeniable.
The doorman didn’t even look for a clipboard.
He just unhooked the rope and stepped aside, his gaze lingering a second too long.
“Enjoy your night, Miss.”
No questions. No hesitation. Apparently, the right shade of lipstick was the only ID I needed.
Inside, the club hit me with the force of a physical blow.
The bass thumped through my ribs, a second heartbeat that demanded I move.
Lights sliced through a haze thick with expensive perfume, the salt-tang of sweat, and the burning scent of top-shelf liquor.
Bodies surged across the floor in a single, undulating wave—arms high, heads thrown back, everyone chasing that electric high of being young and untouchable.
Normally, the sheer volume of a place like this would have sent me shrinking into the corners.
Tonight, it felt . . . possible. I felt ridiculous and powerful in equal measure.
Mostly ridiculous, but I kept my chin up anyway.
I hadn’t convinced Brady to figure out where I could find Evan just to chicken out last minute.
I spotted the private balcony immediately. Of course Evan was up there. He was a Holliston; he wouldn’t know how to exist without the best view in the room. I wove through the crowd, past a security guard who didn’t even blink as I ascended the stairs, and then I saw him.
Evan was sitting alone on a low leather couch in a shadowed corner of the VIP section. For one bright, soaring second, my heart lifted. There were no women draped over his shoulders. No one whispering in his ear. Just Evan.
I raised my hand and waved.
He looked up. He stared. He started to stand—then dropped back onto the leather as if the floor had suddenly tilted on its axis.
My steps slowed. That wasn’t exactly the romantic “movie star” reaction I’d rehearsed on the flight over.
The closer I got, the clearer the picture became.
His usual granite-steady posture had dissolved into a slouch.
His eyes were glassy, and his skin carried that unmistakable, pale-green sheen of a man who had made several enthusiastic, poor decisions involving hard liquor.
Oh. Oh no.
The scene I’d pictured—the slow dance, the impulsive kiss, the whispered truths—evaporated in real time. Evan looked like he was one loud noise away from throwing up on his shoes.
I stopped in front of him, crossing my arms. “Hi.”
He squinted up at me, his brow furrowing into a map of confusion. “Nora?”
“In the flesh.”
“No,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You’re not Nora.”
I couldn’t help it; I laughed. “That’s a new one. Who am I then?”
He leaned back, studying me with the intense focus of a man trying to solve a particularly difficult math problem. “You’re a hallucination.”
“Sorry to disappoint. I’m real.”
He rubbed his face with both hands, a low groan escaping him. “Oh God.”
“Rough night, Evan?”
“Rough decade,” he corrected, his voice gravelly.
I tilted my head, looking at the graveyard of empty glasses on the table. “Evan, what are you doing?”
He scowled at a stray lime wedge. “I was conducting research. On how many terrible decisions a man can fit into a single evening.”
“That’s valuable data,” I said. “How’s the study going?”
He looked at me again—really looked this time—and I saw his gaze snag on the dress. His eyes snapped back to my face with a panicked expression. “You’re . . . dressed up.”
“People usually do that when they leave the house.”
His gaze dropped for a half-second before he forced it back up. “You look . . .” He stopped. He shook his head violently. “Never mind.”
I leaned closer, a tiny smile tugging at my mouth. “You can say it, Evan. It won’t kill you.”
“No. Because I’m drunk and you’re dating my brother and I’m trying—very, very hard—to maintain a basic level of human decency.”
There it was. The misunderstanding, still alive and breathing between us. For a heartbeat, I considered correcting him right then laying it all out, clearing the air. But he was barely upright. This conversation deserved the truth, not alcohol muddied logic.
I leaned casually against the arm of the couch. “Well, this definitely isn’t how I pictured our big reunion.”
He groaned again, the sound vibrating in his chest. “Please tell me you didn’t come here for me.”
“I did.”
“Jesus.”
“Relax,” I said, my voice softening. “I’m not here to cause trouble.”
His eyes narrowed. “That’s exactly what a troublemaker would say.”
“Possibly.” I studied the dark circles under his eyes. “You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now, I’ll give you a choice. You can either come dance with me”—he looked like the mere suggestion might actually kill him—“or, I can take you home.”
His eyes flickered—something sharp and conflicted flashing through his drunken haze—before he looked away. “Nora,” he muttered. “You can’t take me home.”
“Why not?”
“Because Brady would kill me. And then he’d kill you. And then he’d kill me again.”
I sighed, reached out, and touched his shoulder. “That’s really not the issue you think it is, Evan.”
He tried to stand, wobbling immediately. I caught his arm before he could go down, and he sat back with what little dignity he had left.
“Okay,” I said gently. “New plan. I’m definitely taking you home.”
“I refuse,” he said, though he didn’t pull away.
“You can refuse while you’re leaning on me.”
“I don’t want you anywhere near me,” he glared, but there was no heat in it.
“That’s unfortunate,” I said cheerfully, slipping my arm under his shoulder and hoisting him up. “Because I don’t want to watch you fall flat on your face in front of your friends.”
He froze as he stood, his body stiff against mine. “Don’t touch me.”
“I have to. Unless you want to crawl to the elevator.”
“I object.”
“Noted.”
We made it three steps before he leaned heavily into me, his head dropping near my neck. “See?” I whispered. “Excellent decision-making.”
“This is humiliating,” he grumbled into my hair.
“Only slightly.”
“I’m never drinking again. Ever.”
“That’s what they all say, Evan.”
Near the stairs, a tall man with dark hair and a look of easy awareness stepped into our path.
He took in Evan, then me, and his expression shifted to amusement. “You must be Nora.”
I blinked. “Yes?”
“Mateo,” he said, offering his hand briefly before stepping back to give us space. “We’ve heard a lot about you. So much more than we wanted to.”
Evan made a pained sound. “Oh God. Stop talking.”
Mateo ignored him, his tone calm, almost reassuring. “Do you need help with him?”
“No, I have a driver. All I have to do is get him to the door, then I’ll get him back to his place.”
Mateo glanced between us. “If you need anything, we’re here. Good luck.”
I nodded. “I’ve got him.”
Mateo’s mouth tipped in a faint smile. “I’m sure you do. Don’t let him throw up on you. He doesn’t hold his tequila down when he gets to this point.”
Evan groaned. “Traitor.”
Mateo stepped aside, already turning to redirect someone who was about to stumble into a server with a full tray—one quick hand, one quiet word, problem solved before it became one.
I steered us toward the exit, Evan muttering under his breath the whole way. “You can let go of me. And that dress is too little.”
“A deliberate choice,” I admitted while holding on to him.
Outside, the cool night air hit his face and he sagged with relief. My driver was already at the curb, and I helped him into the back seat, accepting the small bucket the driver passed back with a sympathetic nod.
The ride across Manhattan flew in a blur of sleepy grumbling. By the time we reached his building, he was quieter—the fight replaced by an exhausted sort of surrender. Getting him into the apartment was a slow mission involving several “strategic pauses” against the hallway walls.
Inside, he collapsed onto the edge of his bed while I found water and painkillers in the kitchen.
“You’re just going to sit there?” he muttered as I handed him the glass. “Watch me sleep like I’m a kid?”
I smiled, the light from the bedside lamp casting long shadows across the room. “Yes.”
He frowned, his eyes searching mine. “Why?”
“Because once upon a time,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, “when I needed you, you stayed with me just like this. You didn’t leave.”
His eyes softened for a fraction of a second, the walls dropping enough for me to see the man underneath the Holliston armor. Then he scowled again, his pride reasserting itself. “You should go back to the valley, Nora. Brady won’t like this.”
I brushed a hand lightly through his hair, the strands soft against my fingers. “Sleep, Evan.”
He tried to argue, but the tequila finally won. Within minutes, his breathing evened out into a slow, heavy rhythm.
I stayed where I was, watching him in the quiet of the New York night. “Sleep,” I said softly. “We’ll talk about the rest tomorrow.”