Dirty Developments (The One Night Stand Club #3)

Prologue

ANNA

Tonight, I’m committing the ultimate betrayal.

Stepping out on Valentine’s Day.

Ugh, I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.

To be fair, it’s not for romance—God, no—but for music.

It’s a weakness very few know about, but of course I had to open my stupid mouth once around Lily and now she knows.

And as soon as Lily knows something, she never lets it die.

Especially if it means she can find some way to connect with you over it.

It’s disgustingly sweet and impossible to say no to.

Ever since she found her soulmate, or whatever, in her childhood BFF London, she’s made it her mission to spread the cheer to everyone else like some sort of lust-for-life fairy godmother. Insert eye roll.

“Anna, you need to get out of the house. Come with London and me—just for an hour or two. I promise, it will be fun,” Lily had said, wielding her damn empathetic eyes like weapons of mass guilt.

Fun for her, maybe.

For me? Missing an evening of coding brilliance, spicy chips, and snarky banter with Alexa feels like sacrilege.

And yet… here I am, God help me.

When I step inside the café, I’m immediately hit with the heady aroma of overpriced coffee and misplaced dreams.

The place is annoyingly charming, like it was designed by someone with a Pinterest addiction and a trust fund.

Strings of fairy lights crisscross the ceiling, their warm glow pooling over mismatched chairs and tables that look like they’ve been rescued from various garage sales.

The walls are covered in vintage posters of bands no one listens to anymore, and there’s a chalkboard menu that’s trying a little too hard to be quirky.

The clientele? Oh, it’s a hipster’s paradise.

I count at least three ironic beanies and four acoustic guitars before I even make it past the doorway. Someone in the corner is wearing a corduroy jacket that probably has its own Instagram account.

I sigh and adjust my glasses, stepping aside to let Lily sweep in like she owns the place. She’s practically glowing with enthusiasm, while I’m already calculating the number of polite nods I’ll need to fake before I can make a quick and silent escape.

“Isn’t it cute?” Lily gushes, spinning around like we’ve stumbled into a romcom set.

“Adorable,” I deadpan, shifting my belt bag to tuck it under my left arm.

She shoots me a look but doesn’t argue. She knows better. Instead, she grabs my arm and steers me toward the counter. I let her do the ordering because I’m too busy plotting my exit strategy. A dirty chai latte ends up in my hand before I can protest, and Lily’s already scanning the room.

“There’s London. Come on,” she points to the front like she’s just found buried treasure. I guess for her, that could be true.

“Have fun,” I mutter, veering in the opposite direction.

I can hear Lily’s sigh before she flits off to the front like a caffeinated hummingbird, leaving me alone with my drink, my phone, and my scorn.

The back corner calls to me like a sanctuary, far from the stage and the too-loud laughter of people who probably journal their dreams in bullet points. I slump into a chair and take a sip of my drink, reveling in the spices and caffeine.

Gotta admit, the chai’s not bad, I’ll give it that, but the rest of the evening already feels like a waste of time.

I tap open a game on my phone, but my ears betray me, catching snippets of the first act.

It’s a duo—of course it’s a duo—one strumming a guitar while the other sways like they’re channeling the spirit of Woodstock. Their harmonies are… ambitious, let’s call it that.

A soft snort escapes me as the lyrics hit a cringe-worthy crescendo. Another romantic confession masquerading as art. Groundbreaking. Gag.

I take another sip of my chai, resisting the urge to check the time. It’s going to be a long night but at least I can do it in peace.

The duo finishes their set to polite applause, and the hum of conversation resumes. I exhale in relief, my nervous system dropping into a low hum.

One down, who knows how many to go? Maybe I’ll slip out after the next act. Lily will be too absorbed in her lovebird bubble to notice my absence.

The emcee steps onto the stage, a wiry guy with a man bun and a blazer two sizes too small. “Next up, we’ve got someone special for you. You may have seen him on much larger stages, but our man is back to his hometown, and we managed to snag him for tonight. Give it up for Joel Price.”

My chai nearly slips out of my hand.

No.

Not possible.

But then I see him.

Joel strides onto the stage with the kind of effortless confidence that makes you want to trip him.

The dim lights catch the slight wave in his dark hair, falling into his eyes just enough to make it look intentional.

He’s wearing a leather jacket over a plain black tee, fitted just enough to hint at the muscles beneath.

He looks good. Annoyingly good. Like the universe is playing a cruel joke on me.

I sink deeper into my chair, my pulse quickening despite my best efforts to stay detached.

He adjusts the strap of his guitar, his movements unhurried but deliberate, like he owns the room—or maybe just doesn’t care if he doesn’t. Honestly, that’s worse.

“Thank you for coming out tonight,” Joel says into the mic, his voice smooth and confident, drawing the room’s focus effortlessly.

He adjusts the guitar strap on his shoulder and leans into the stand, his green eyes scanning the crowd with practiced ease.

“It’s good to be back in Duluth. It’s been too long. ”

The crowd murmurs their agreement.

Meanwhile, I sink lower into my chair, silently willing the dim lighting to work some kind of miracle and render me invisible. No such luck. As his gaze sweeps the room, it catches on me.

Fuck.

His eyes widen slightly—just enough for me to notice.

Oh yeah, he’s surprised to see me. Good. That makes two of us, you sanctimonious troglodyte.

I arch a brow, lifting my chai in a mock toast. “Congratulations, you have eyes,” I mutter under my breath, the words drowned out by the hum of the café.

For a moment, he looks like he’s debating something, his fingers gripping the neck of his guitar just a bit tighter. Then he clears his throat, recovering fast, and shifts back into Mr. Perfect Performer.

“And since it’s Valentine’s Day,” he says, his voice back to that annoyingly smooth tone, “this one’s for the lovebirds out there.”

The room lets out a collective aww as Joel strums the first chord. Couples lean into each other, their hands brushing over tabletops, their heads tilting just so.

I resist the urge to gag. Barely.

But then the melody kicks in, and my stomach flips.

No. Not this.

The song pulls at memories I’ve spent years trying to bury. My chest tightens as the opening notes wash over me, and I clutch my chai cup like it’s a stress ball.

Joel starts singing, and the weight in the room shifts. His voice, raw and deliberate, wraps around every corner of the café.

It’s too much. Too familiar.

And then it happens—his eyes find mine again.

Oh, for the love of—seriously?

His gaze lingers, steady and deliberate, like he’s trying to say something. Like this whole damn performance is some kind of message meant for me.

Absolutely the fuck not.

The air between us feels heavier, charged with something I refuse to acknowledge. My heart thunders as I sit frozen in place, his voice pushing and pulling at emotions I don’t want to feel.

Nope. Nope. A thousand times nope.

The scrape of my chair echoes through the café as I shove it back and stand, breaking whatever connection he thinks we’re having. A few heads turn, but I don’t care. My only goal is out.

I adjust my bag over my shoulder and make a beeline for the door, my boots clunking against the floor like punctuation marks to my exit. I’m sure a few people noticed me leave—maybe even whispered about it—but I don’t care. Not about their opinions, not about the song, not about him.

I’ll apologize to Lily later, but right now, I don’t even care about her.

The cold hits me the second I push through the café door, sharp and bracing.

It pricks at my cheeks, but it’s not enough to cool the heat of frustration simmering beneath my skin.

I pull my coat tighter around me and pick up my pace, the muffled sound of Joel’s song trailing behind me like a phantom.

I’m halfway across the parking lot when the music stops abruptly. The sound cuts out mid-verse, leaving an echo in its place.

I pause, frowning, and glance over my shoulder. The stage is out of sight, but the café door swings open, spilling warm light and a murmur of confused voices into the cold night air.

My blood runs cold and for some stupid reason, I turn on my heel, racing for my Subaru.

And then I hear him.

“Anna!”

His voice is sharp, insistent, and closer than I expected.

I whirl around to find Joel jogging toward me, his leather jacket catching the glow of the streetlamp above. His breath fogs in the icy air, and he’s clutching something in his hand—a crumpled envelope.

“What the hell, Joel?” I snap, my pulse hammering in my ears. “Did you seriously stop your set to chase me?”

He slows as he approaches, his expression unreadable but tinged with something I can’t place. “I had to,” he says, his voice quieter now. “You were leaving.”

“Yeah, no kidding. I’m still leaving.” I jab a thumb toward my car. “You didn’t have to make a scene about it.”

Joel exhales sharply, his breath visible in the cold, and holds out the envelope. “This is for you,” he says, ignoring my tone.

I glance at it, then back at him. My defenses flare up instantly. “What is it?”

“Just… take it,” he says, his voice steady but softer now. “Please.”

I hesitate, every instinct screaming at me to walk away. But my curiosity wins out, and I step forward, snatching the envelope from his hand. The paper crinkles under my fingers, heavier than it should be.

“What is this supposed to be?” I ask, my voice sharp. “Some kind of apology?”

Joel doesn’t flinch, but his jaw tightens. “You’ll figure it out,” he whispers.

I don’t miss the flicker of something in his eyes—something raw, unguarded. It throws me off for a second, but I recover quickly.

“Thanks for the mystery,” I say flatly, stuffing the envelope into my back pocket. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Anna,” he says again, his voice low, almost pleading.

But I don’t let him finish. Turning sharply, I march the rest of the way to my vehicle, yanking the door open and sliding inside before he can say another word.

The envelope presses against my backside, an unwelcome reminder of whatever Joel thinks he’s doing. I grip the steering wheel and take a shaky breath, staring at the frost-edged windshield.

Whatever this is, I’m not ready to deal with it.

Not tonight.

I knew I should have stayed home.