Chapter 11 #2
The hotel lobby looks like money had a baby with champagne and then hired a lighting designer. Warm gold uplighting, marble floors that probably cost more than my student loans, and security checking names at the door like this is a royal gala and not a hockey party.
Shari links her arm through mine, practically vibrating. "Okay, I changed my mind. If I go missing, do not look for me. I live here now."
"You can’t live in a five-star hotel lobby," I whisper.
"Watch me. I’ll blend."
Before I can respond, the doors to the private ballroom open and noise spills out… music, laughter, clinking glasses, the kind of energy that screams expensive chaos.
Shari practically floats in.
I follow.
And then, I see him.
Bryce stands near the bar in a black suit and open collar shirt, no tie, sleeves rolled casually like sin disguised as sophistication. He’s listening to Dex, but the moment I step into the room, everything in him shifts.
Stillness.
Attention.
Like instinct.
His eyes drag slowly over me from the bottom up… heels, legs, dress, hair. Heat floods my skin in a way no sensible human resources speech could ever extinguish.
Shari mutters, "Ho-ly crap. He looks at you like dessert."
My pulse slams.
Bryce doesn’t move at first… then he starts walking toward me.
Slow.
Confident.
Casual in the way predators are casual.
Dex turns and spots us. "ANNABELLE. And who do we have here?"
"Hi Dex. Looking sharp. This is my friend Shari. Shari, this is Dex."
"Where have you been hiding her, Annabelle?"
Shari blushes.
"Keep it in your pants, Dex. She's a classy girl."
"Safely secured," he says as pats his crotch and winks at us.
Colby raises his champagne as Bryce approaches. "Here comes trouble.”
Eli adds, "Five bucks says he stops pretending he isn’t obsessed with her by midnight."
"Make it ten," Dex mutters.
Shari grins like she’s been handed season tickets and a backstage pass. "I love it here."
Finally, Bryce reaches us.
He stops inches from me.
Close enough to smell cedar, clean soap, and trouble.
"You came," he says quietly.
"Against my better judgment," I reply.
His lips tilt. "Glad your judgment sucks tonight."
Before I can respond, a man appears. Tall. Handsome. Overly cologned.
"Annabelle?" he asks with a smile.
Of course.
A man only appears immediately after a line like Glad your judgment sucks tonight. The universe loves comedy.
"Hi," I say politely. "Sorry, do I know you?"
He laughs. "Not yet. I’m Richard. I saw you walk in and figured I should say hello before the line forms."
Oh.
Oh no.
Shari is silently chanting, "Yessss, stir the chaos."
Bryce’s jaw ticks.
Richard gestures toward the dance floor. "Want to dance?"
My pulse spikes.
I open my mouth to decline… professionally, politely… but Bryce speaks first.
"She’s busy."
Richard turns, eyebrows raised. "Oh? You two are here together?"
Before I can answer, Shari blurts, "Physically no, emotionally yes."
I elbow her.
Hard.
She coughs. "What I meant was: uh. They are coworkers. Professionals. They like… spreadsheets."
Richard nods slowly. "Right. Well. If you want that dance, I’ll be around."
He walks away.
Shari fans herself. "Oh my God, I felt that tension in my bone marrow."
Bryce looks at me, expression unreadable.
"Dance with me," he says.
Not a question.
A low-voiced inevitability.
My brain wants to protest.
My body moves first.
I slip my hand into his.
He threads our fingers together like he’s been waiting.
The music shifts to a slower, darker melody.
On the dance floor, he places one hand on my lower back, warm and firm, guiding me closer.
Too close.
Not close enough.
His breath brushes my ear.
"You know you like this, and you look too damn sexy to keep pretending otherwise."
I swallow. "Bryce..."
His thumb strokes the back of my hand.
"Say you don’t feel it and I’ll walk away."
Silence stretches.
Finally…
"I can’t," I whisper.
Something shifts in him.
Something final.
He leans in and presses a slow kiss to the side of my throat… not quite lips on skin… but close enough I forget oxygen.
My knees go unreliable while we dance.
The slow song eventually fades and quickly the DJ shifts gears, cranking something upbeat with bass that rattles champagne glasses.
The dance floor explodes. Dex grabs Shari’s hand like they’ve known each other three lifetimes and yells, “Come on, future Mrs. Chaos!” which she takes as a compliment.
She drags him toward the center, already laughing.
Eli and Colby follow, doing what can only be described as aggressively enthusiastic dad-at-a-wedding choreography. Eli attempts a spin. Nearly falls. Colby saves him by pretending it was absolutely part of the plan.
Bryce’s hand is still at my lower back, warm and sure, but when I try to pull him toward the group, he shakes his head, playful, almost smug.
“You want me to dance like that?” he asks.
I raise a brow. “Scared?”
His grin is lethal. “Sweetheart, I’m scared of nothing. I just don’t want to embarrass the rest of the male population in this room.”
“Wow.” I laugh and tug harder. “Come prove it then.”
And he does.
To my absolute shock. Not only can Bryce dance, he can dance well. Confident, effortless rhythm that should be illegal. At one point he twirls me, and someone whistles. Then he leans in and murmurs, “Still pretending you don’t want me?”
I swat his arm and pretend I’m not internally combusting.
We dance until we’re breathless. Until my cheeks ache from laughing. Until Dex does a body roll so dramatic the DJ salutes him.
Then hunger…not emotional, but literal hits.
Shari reappears, hair wild, lipstick slightly messed up, eyes sparkling. “I need food immediately or I will pass out in a glamorous but medically concerning way.”
The four of us migrate to a long table covered in trays of appetizers that look both expensive and confusing.
Dex holds up a small pastry. “What’s this?”
Colby answers confidently, “Caviar pillow.”
A waiter overhears. “Actually, that’s a vegan mushroom tart.”
Colby blinks twice. “That’s what I meant.”
Bryce picks up something tiny and chocolate-coated, holding it between his thumb and forefinger as he looks at me.
“You should try this.”
“What is it?”
“No idea.” He smirks. “But it smells like sin.”
Before I can grab it, he lifts it to my mouth.
I freeze.
His expression doesn’t change… steady, focused, teasing with a layer of heat I feel everywhere.
Slowly, I part my lips.
He feeds it to me.
The chocolate melts instantly, rich and dark with caramel and salt.
I make an involuntary sound.
Bryce’s eyes flare like I just did something inappropriate in church.
Dex slaps his hand on the table. “Well damn, someone bring me ten of those. I want that reaction from my date.”
Shari elbows him. “Calm down, Casanova.”
Bryce doesn’t break eye contact. “Good?”
I swallow. Barely. “Dangerously.”
The music shifts again and laughter rolls across the ballroom. Fireworks glitter faintly outside the windows. Everything feels warm and alive and too easy.
Shari leans close to my ear. “If you don’t sleep with him tonight, I’ll do it for you.”
I choke. Bryce raises a brow.
“No pressure,” Shari whispers, “but… pressure.”
Bryce steps closer, voice low enough for only me.
“You okay?”
I nod, but it’s a lie.
Because whatever this is, it’s no longer manageable.
It’s wildfire.
And midnight is getting closer.
The city begins the countdown overhead on the large balcony clock.
Ten.
Nine.
The whole room chants.
Eight.
Bryce guides me toward the balcony doors.
Seven.
The cold night air hits my skin.
Six.
Fireworks sit poised above Nashville’s skyline.
Five.
No cameras. No crowd.
Four.
Only him.
Three.
He cups my jaw.
Two.
His voice is velvet and warning.
"If you don’t want me, stop me now."
One.
I don’t move.
Zero.
Fireworks erupt and his mouth crashes onto mine.
Not tentative.
Not testing.
Claiming.
His hand slides into my hair, the other gripping my hip, pulling me flush against him like he intends to memorize every inch.
My body melts into his with heat, want, and adrenaline.
He kisses me like I am the conclusion to a question he’s been living with for months.
And I kiss him like I’ve been waiting for the answer.
Somewhere behind us, Dex yells, "OH YEAH, THAT’S THE CONTENT. HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ME."
Bryce doesn’t break the kiss. Not even when Dex’s voice fades back into the party. Instead, he kisses me deeper. Slower. Like he already knows I’m not stopping him this time, and now he wants to know exactly how far I’ll let him go.
My fingers slide in his hair, and I feel the subtle, quiet shift in his pants. His restraint loosens. His body presses into mine, firm and sure, like he’s been imagining this as long as I have.
When he finally pulls back, I’m breathless and unsteady. The fireworks light his face in flashes of gold and red, and he looks like something I shouldn’t want but absolutely do.
He leans closer, voice low. “Happy New Year, Annabelle. Tell me you’re not running tonight.”
A soft, helpless laugh slips out of me. “Running takes energy. I currently have none. And Happy New Year to you, Bryce.”
He brushes his thumb along my jaw. “Come with me.”
The words aren’t demanding. They aren’t gentle either. They’re inevitable.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs. I should say no. I should walk away. I should remember every boundary I set and every rule I’m supposed to enforce.
Instead, I whisper, “Okay.”
His hand finds mine. Warm. Steady. Confident.
We walk through the ballroom without speaking. People laugh, dancers sway, cameras flash, but none of it touches us. His thumb strokes the back of my hand once, as if he’s checking…
Are you sure?
And I squeeze back.
We reach the elevator. The doors slide open. We step inside. But this time, there’s no frantic kissing, no desperate chaos. Just charged silence and the electric pulse of anticipation.
The numbers blink higher with every floor.
Ding.
His suite.
He unlocks the door, pushes it open, and steps aside so I can walk in first.
The room is quiet and dim, lit only by the city skyline pouring through the massive windows. Nashville glows like a dream under fireworks and shadows.
I turn to look at him. He closes the door behind us, and something inside me clicks into place. It’s like the moment before a storm when the air shifts and everything feels sharper.
He takes one slow step toward me. Then another.
When he reaches me, he lifts his hand and gently tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. His touch is soft, but his eyes are heat and full of intention.
“I need you to know,” he says quietly, “if you tell me to stop, I will.”
My voice is barely sound. “I don’t want you to stop.”
His breath leaves him in one slow exhale, like he’s been waiting for those words longer than I knew.
Then he kisses me again. Deep. Hungry. Certain.
My back meets the edge of the couch as his hands slide up my sides, fingertips grazing my ribs and sending sparks everywhere. My fingers tangle in his hair once again, pulling him closer, because now that I’ve tasted this, I need more.
He trails his mouth along my jaw, down my neck, slow enough to make me shake. “You good?” he murmurs against my skin.
“Yes.” It comes out more breath than word.
His hands slide to my hips and he lifts me effortlessly, setting me down onto the couch. My dress hikes up my thighs, and his gaze drops like gravity pulls it there.
He joins me, one knee on the cushion, one foot still grounded on the floor like he’s anchoring us both. Our mouths crash together again, but this time it’s messy and raw, like we’ve run out of patience to be civilized.
His hand slides up my thigh and I gasp into him. He swallows the sound with a low groan that sends heat straight through me.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, voice rough.
“It’s not enough.”
His eyes lift to mine… dark, blown, undone.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I’m not done with you."
Something in me snaps. It’s not fear, not doubt, but just the final thread holding back everything I’ve been trying to deny.
My breath trembles out of me and I look at him, really look. The way he’s watching me like I’m something rare, something he’s finally allowed to touch. Something he’s not letting go of.
My voice is quiet, shaky, and honest. "Bryce…" I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.
He does.
His hands slide beneath me again, steady, strong, and before I can think, he lifts me off the couch.
Not fast. Not frantic. Slow. Like I’m breakable and precious and his.
My arms loop around his shoulders on instinct and he captures my mouth in another kiss, deep and claiming, the kind that makes my legs weak and my thoughts dissolve. And somewhere in the dizzy chaos of tongue and heat and want, my brain throws every unhelpful theory it can find.
Is this rebound sex?
Is this what people mean when they say you need to sleep with someone to get over your ex?
Or is this just Bryce… his mouth, his hands, his impossible gravitational pull… rewiring every cell in my body until logic packs a suitcase and leaves town?
I barely notice we’re moving until my back meets something soft.
The bed.