Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Skye
"Skye!" Harper yells over the pounding music, gesturing wildly between us. "This is Reed. Reed, this is my bestest friend in the whole world, Skye." She drags out the introduction with tipsy enthusiasm, her arm looping around my shoulders and squeezing me against her side.
I shake his hand, noticing up close the same easy confidence I'd spotted from across the crowded, dimly lit room. "Nice to meet you," I say, trying not to fidget under his appraising gaze.
He smiles a way-too-charming smile that probably works on most women but feels rehearsed to my artist's eye—all perfect angles without the genuine emotion behind it.
I can immediately tell he's used to getting his way based solely on his looks.
I turn my attention to the dark-haired woman standing slightly behind him, extending my hand. "I'm Skye."
"Hi, I'm Wren," she replies, taking my hand with a grip that's firm but feminine. Her nails are perfectly manicured in a deep burgundy that complements her olive skin, and I can't help but admire the artistry of her subtle makeup.
"Nice to meet you," I say, and she smiles a beautiful smile at me that reaches her eyes, crinkling the corners slightly. Something genuine in her expression makes me instantly like her, a warmth radiating that Reed's practiced charm lacks entirely.
"So, you remember Ethan, right?" Harper asks, leaning against the sticky table.
I look at her with confusion furrowing my brow, my fingers automatically reaching up to twist my nose ring. "Yeah?"
"Reed is Ethan's son," she explains, as if dropping the most casual bombshell while taking another sip of her brightly colored cocktail.
"No shit," I say, genuinely shocked, my eyes widening as I study his face more carefully.
"I didn't know he had kids." Now that I think about it, they do resemble each other, but Ethan is all man—a grown-up version of the younger one standing before me.
The same strong jawline, similar piercing eyes, but Ethan's carry years of experience that make them infinitely more compelling, more mysterious.
There's something about the way Ethan looks at people, like he can see straight through to their core, that his son completely lacks.
"Oh god, are you comparing us?" Reed asks with a knowing smirk, catching my appraising look as I mentally catalog the similarities and differences.
"Yeah, I get it now," I say, nodding slowly, unable to stop my artist's mind from analyzing their features like I would a portrait study.
"But I'm better looking and younger," he says with that same practiced charm, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair.
"Mmm, I don't know. Your dad's pretty hot," I reply without thinking, immediately regretting the words as they leave my mouth. Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I wish I could melt into the floor or at least blame the alcohol, but I've sweat it mostly out of my system.
Both Wren and Harper burst out laughing, the sound bright and surprised, cutting through the bass-heavy music. Harper's eyes dance with mischief as she nudges my shoulder.
Reed groans dramatically, placing a hand over his heart like I've mortally wounded him. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."
"Come on, sit at our table so we can catch up," Harper insists, tugging at my arm and making room in our booth.
Reed and Wren order drinks—something expensive and top-shelf for him, a simple gin and tonic for her—and we chat for a while, the conversation flowing easily between sips of cocktails and shared laughter.
The ice in my glass clinks as I nervously twist it around, listening as they talk about how Wren and Reed met in college at Michigan State, and how Reed and Harper grew up together before she moved after the divorce.
I find myself warming to them both, especially Wren, who seems so sweet.
My phone burns in my pocket like a hot coal, Dom's text still unanswered beyond my pathetic "Good!
" I want to pull it out, to craft something more meaningful, more suggestive, but with Harper watching me, I resist. The last thing I need is for her to grab my phone playfully and see messages from her father.
"Who wants to dance," Wren says after a while, setting down her empty glass with a decisive clink against the table.
"I will," I offer immediately, grateful for the distraction and an escape from my own thoughts. My legs are already itching to move, to lose myself in something physical and uncomplicated.
We walk downstairs together, navigating through the crush of bodies, and hit the dance floor where the crowd pulsates like a single organism.
The bass is even louder here, so powerful it vibrates through my chest and into my feet, rattling my ribcage.
I can tell Wren loves to dance too—there's a freedom in her movements that wasn't present in her more reserved table demeanor.
In no time, we're dancing together, moving in sync as if we've known each other for years.
Her movements are fluid and natural, uninhibited without being showy, and I find myself matching her energy, my own body responding to the rhythm.
We dance through several songs, including WLW that has the whole floor grinding in unison, the collective energy infectious.
Another sensual song I don't recognize follows, with a hypnotic beat that seems to bypass my brain and connect directly to my hips.
We sway together, laughing as guys try to catch our attention with increasingly desperate moves.
By the time a third pulsing track plays, Harper and Reed join us on the dance floor, emerging from the crowd with drinks in hand.
Harper slides up next to me, her movements confident and sensual in a way I've always envied. Her hair whips around as she moves. "Having fun?" she shouts over the music, her breath warm against my ear.
"Yeah!" I yell back, and I mean it. For a moment, I've forgotten about Dom, about the mess I've created by selling my virginity to my best friend's dad. The rhythm takes over, and I lose myself in the music, in the anonymous freedom of being just another body moving in the dark.
We dance until one in the morning, our bodies glistening with sweat, before finally retreating to our booth to catch our breath and get one last drink before we leave.
My hair is damp with sweat, clinging to my neck and temples, my feet ache pleasantly in my heels, and I feel lighter than I have in days.
The tension I've been carrying in my shoulders has melted away, if only temporarily.
"This was exactly what I needed," I tell Harper, gulping down water so fast some dribbles down my chin. I wipe it away with the back of my hand, not caring about my smudged makeup anymore.
"I knew it would be," she replies smugly, somehow looking radiant despite hours of dancing. Her makeup remains perfect, not a strand of hair out of place—something I've never been able to achieve.
As we gather our things to leave, purses and half-finished drinks, I finally pull out my phone.
Three new messages from Dom glow on my screen, and my heart rate doubles instantly, a different kind of pulsing rhythm taking over my body.
The night of escape is over. Reality—complicated, thrilling, terrifying reality—awaits, and I'm not sure if I'm ready to face it quite yet.
I close the hotel door behind us, letting Harper collapse dramatically onto the nearest bed while I head straight for the mini-fridge.
The room is cool against my overheated skin, the air conditioning a blessed relief after the packed club.
My limbs feel heavy with exhaustion, but there's a pleasant buzz humming through my veins that only comes from dancing until you forget everything else.
"You want to shower first?" I ask, twisting open a bottle of overpriced water and gulping it down greedily. Dancing for hours has left me parched, my throat dry and scratchy. The condensation from the bottle drips between my fingers, cool and refreshing against my flushed skin.
"No, I want to relax a few," she says, scooting more fully onto bed, kicking off her heels without caring where they land. Her red hair fans out around her head like a fiery halo against the white comforter. Even sprawled out and exhausted, she looks like she belongs in a magazine.
"Okay, I'm going to go then." I grab my night clothes out of the bag she brought, grateful that Harper always thinks of everything. My own planning skills are basically nonexistent compared to hers—another way we're completely different.
"Okie dokey," she sing-songs, and I chuckle as I walk into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. The sound of her humming some club song follows me in, muffled through the door.
I set the clothes down on the counter and start the shower, letting steam fill the small room while I pull out my phone to finally check the missed texts from Dom.
My heart pounds harder than it did during any song tonight, a nervous flutter that starts in my chest and radiates outward until my fingertips tingle with anticipation.
Cindy: Is it good?
Cindy: Let me know when you make it back to the hotel.
Cindy: Are you guys still good?
The last message was sent at midnight, and it's after two now, but I text back anyway. I don't want him thinking I'm ignoring him. The thought of disappointing him makes my stomach twist uncomfortably.
Me: Sorry, just got back.
I hit send and put my phone down to get undressed, figuring he won't see that message until morning.
My reflection catches in the mirror—flushed cheeks, smudged eyeliner, hair a wild tangle around my face.
I look nothing like the poised, put-together women someone like Dom must usually date.
I'm pulling my top over my head when my phone vibrates on the counter, startling me so badly I nearly trip over my own feet.
Cindy: Show me