Kissing My Bad Boy Rockstar (Billionaire Rockstars #2)

Chapter 1

NORA

The Masquerade Ball

Masquerade Ball, Haversham Museum of Arts champagne flutes clink like distant wind chimes.

Everyone moves as though spotlights follow their personal orbits.

My phone vibrates inside my clutch. It’s Emily—queen of pep talks, currently marooned in bed with a thirty-hour flu that struck a few hours before tonight’s masquerade.

She’d spent a month bragging about the charity ball she was finally invited to, then pressed the e-ticket into my inbox with dramatic death-bed theatrics:

“Take my place, Nora. Live a little. Report back with tales of scandal.”

Now her messages light up the screen in rapid fire:

Em:

Stop lurking, mingle!

Em:

I may be dying but my FOMO is immortal.

Em:

Remember—no nerd speak. Go kiss a stranger for me.

I huff a laugh—the sound halfway between nerves and affection—and tuck the phone away. If she thinks I can handle one glitter-soaked night, maybe she’s right.

The gown Emily found for me is a deep-blue satin that puddles at my feet like midnight ink, fitted through the bodice before flaring out in a sweep I keep forgetting is mine. Every time I move, the fabric catches chandelier light and throws back indigo flashes, as if the dress has a pulse.

A half-mask of black lace—threaded with tiny gold feathers—rests over my eyes; it’s secured by silk ribbons that disappear into my hair, which for once are coaxed into soft, tumbling waves instead of the librarian bun I wear like armor.

A slender string of pearls drapes my collarbone, and the stilettos—wicked, shimmering things—add three inches of height and a foreign tilt to my hips.

For once, I don’t feel like a background extra in my own story.

I feel luminous, novel-cover beautiful, the kind of heroine who might actually step out of the margins and into her own plot.

The realization hums under my skin, warm and effervescent, and I and push away from the nymph’s cool shoulder.

“Mingle,” I mutter, stepping into the currents of silk gowns and bespoke tuxedos. Easy for Emily to say.

Still, I’ll try. I square my shoulders and drink in the scene, labeling strangers the way I label stacks at the library. Categories are my comfort, and order is the quickest antidote to panic.

That brooding man in impeccable tails? Mr. Darcy. The woman in the white-and-black fur cape, cigarette holder aloft? Cruella de Vil’s modern reincarnation—file under Villains, v. 2. The giggling cluster awash in iridescent aqua? An entire siren chorus lifted from some half-forgotten Greek myth.

With each mental sticker my pulse steadies; the roar of chandelier light and champagne laughter shrinks to something I can alphabetize. Naming things is how I keep the chaos from shelving me instead.

A waiter glides by with a silver tray. I snag a fresh flute of champagne, the bubbles leaping like exclamation points. Sip, catalog, breathe.

A man approaches.

Tall, well-dressed, smile like a shark.

He’s older than me, probably mid-forties. Slicked-back hair, expensive watch, the kind of guy who’s probably used to being listened to. Or at least obeyed.

“Now that’s a pretty little thing to be standing all alone,” he drawls, voice thick with bourbon and unearned confidence. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

I tighten my grip on my champagne flute. “Just taking a breather.”

He ignores that completely and steps closer, crowding my space.

“Come on, don’t be shy.” His eyes rake over me—neck, chest, hips—like I’m a product he’s considering buying. “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be alone at an event like this.”

“I’m not alone,” I say quickly. “I’m actually waiting for someone.”

“Lucky guy,” he says, but his tone says he doesn’t believe me—or worse, doesn’t care.

I try to step to the side, but his hand shoots out and brushes my arm—fingers curling lightly around my bare elbow.

It’s not a hard grip, not painful. But it’s not wanted either.

And that makes my stomach twist.

I try to smile, polite but firm. “I should go—”

He chuckles. “You’re nervous. That’s cute.”

His hand slides lower, warm and possessive on the curve of my arm, and my skin prickles with discomfort.

I look around, heart stuttering. No one’s really watching. Everyone’s too wrapped up in their masks and their gossip and their martinis to notice some creep getting handsy with a girl who doesn’t know how to say stop without sounding dramatic.

He leans in closer, breath hot against my cheek. “You don’t have to play hard to get, you know. I’ve got a penthouse upstairs. You’d like the view.”

My throat dries. My feet won’t move.

“I said,” I repeat, softer this time, trying to avoid a scene, “don’t touch me.”

But he smiles.

The kind of smile that says oh, I will anyway.

And that’s when I feel it—another hand, wrapping firmly around my waist.

Bigger. Stronger. Steadying.

“Hey,” says a voice behind me. A voice rich as espresso and twice as strong. “There you are, babe.”

The man’s hand drops away like it’s been burned.

I turn.

And I meet a stranger’s eyes—blue, not soft or pale, but sharp and intense. The kind of blue that makes your breath catch.

A stranger in a black mask, tux jacket open, shirt collar slightly askew like he couldn’t be bothered to button all the way up. His gaze is locked on mine—steady, sharp, asking.

You okay?

I nod, barely.

He looks back at the other man, jaw hardening.

“She’s not interested,” he says calmly. Deadly calm.

The older man blinks, trying to reassert control. “Didn’t realize she was taken.”

Now my savior smiles.

And it’s not polite.

It’s the kind of smile that says try me.

“You do now,” he says. “Walk away.”

The man mutters something under his breath and disappears into the crowd.

I’m still frozen.

Still stunned.

“You okay?” His voice slides over my skin—low, dark-roasted, with a hint of smoke curling at the edges. I catch the scent of warm cognac on his breath, and something subtler—like wet cedar after a thunderstorm.

I nod, blinking too fast. “Yeah. I think so. Thank you.”

He tilts his head slightly, studying me.

And then that dangerous smile returns—softer now, but still sharp around the edges.

“I figured you looked like someone worth rescuing.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, my whole body still tight with adrenaline and something else—something electric that hums beneath my skin in the space between his words and mine.

“Well,” I say, voice barely steady, “that’s... a dramatic thing to say to a stranger.”

He grins, unapologetic. “Masquerades are for drama. Masks, gowns, intrigue. You want boring, try a shareholder meeting.”

I huff a surprised laugh. “You sound like you’ve been to a few.”

“Unfortunately.” His eyes flick down, then back up, lingering in a way that makes my spine tingle. “But none this interesting.”

Oh.

Heat curls in my stomach like a lazy cat stretching into the sun. He’s still watching me—no, reading me. Like he knows I’m five seconds from combusting.

He shifts closer, just enough that I catch the scent of him again: smoke, something citrusy, something expensive. His cologne smells like a late-night secret. Like a dare.

“So?” he says, gaze catching on my mask. “What’s a girl like you doing at a party like this?”

I swallow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I just figured...” He tilts his head, eyes narrowing like he’s playing detective and muse at the same time. “You don’t exactly look like the champagne and schmooze type.”

“You mean I don’t look rich?”

“I mean you look real.”

That throws me off balance. I blink, caught somewhere between flattered and flustered. “Well. That’s forward.”

He shrugs, utterly shameless. “I don’t like wasting time. Life’s short, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. Jesus. My knees weaken on the spot.

“I’m actually a last-minute stand-in,” I admit, fingers tightening around the delicate stem of my champagne flute. “My friend Emily was supposed to be here, but she’s at home, very dramatically dying of the flu.”

The stranger raises an eyebrow, amused. “So you’re the understudy in heels?”

“Basically,” I mutter. “She begged me to go in her place. Said it was a ‘networking opportunity.’ I think she just wanted me to accidentally fall into a millionaire’s lap.”

He grins, slow and wicked. “And how’s that working out so far?”

I narrow my eyes. “Poorly. My shoes hate me, my spanx are plotting a coup, and I’ve already been hit on by someone who thinks the word no is a suggestion.”

His expression darkens for half a second—just a flicker—before the flirt returns. “Sounds like a flawless night.” Then, after a beat: “You didn’t want to come, did you?”

I shake my head. “Not even a little. I thought I’d stick out like a sore thumb.”

He looks at me—really looks. “You do,” he says. “But not for the reasons you think.”

And just like that, my heart forgets how to beat properly.

I take a quick sip of champagne to hide the sudden dryness in my throat, but it doesn’t help. I’m hot. My skin is flushed. I can feel it in the tips of my ears, the tightness of my chest. He’s looking at me like he already knows the effect he’s having—and he likes it.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” I mutter, eyes narrowed.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like that.”