Chapter 8
Strong-armed meet-cutes and literal sparkles.
The rooftop bar glowed like a film set.
Golden hour painted the sky rose and amber, casting a soft light over the high-top cocktail tables scattered across the terrace. Fairy lights twinkled overhead, strung from pergolas, and a low hum of ambient music threaded beneath voices and laughter.
Emma stood near the edge of the crowd, prosecco in one hand, the other tightly wrapped around her clutch. This day felt like three crammed into one—had it really been this morning she was on a flight from Minneapolis?
Despite scrubbing thoroughly in the shower, she kept finding tiny flecks of silver on her skin. Occupational hazard of judging cosplay contests, apparently.
An unapologetically retro Edward Cullen had hurled glitter at the judges’ table, yelling “Glitterpires!” like a deranged performance artist.
Emma had given him the lowest possible score.
The glitter was just another thing making her feel self-conscious. Not that she needed help in that department.
The dark blue pencil dress she’d chosen was her most reliable work-dinner outfit. Elegant, discreet, a perfect choice for all occasions.
Except here, everyone was either completely casual or more edgy, making her sober outfit stand out by sheer blandness. Emma felt like an accountant who had wandered in by mistake.
She exhaled slowly, forcing her shoulders to loosen. This wasn’t a war zone. It was a party.
A party full of stunning, confident people who looked like they were born into it—laughing, orbiting each other, forming little constellations that Emma had no idea how to approach. Like stumbling into a Hollywood Narnia.
It wasn’t that she was shy, not really. Just .
. . unequipped. Whatever gene made people glide effortlessly into conversation, hers must’ve mutated into observation instead.
Initiating small talk with strangers was a special kind of torture all on its own—and with this type of crowd?
Like being thrown into the deep end of the pool when she’d barely graduated from floaties.
She scanned the roof for someone even remotely approachable. Nothing. Everyone was already locked deep in conversation, half of them famous enough that she wouldn’t have dared, anyway.
Well then, Plan B. She took out her phone, pretending to check an urgent message rather than scrolling Instagram.
She’d already dealt with most of her work emails while Leah was in the shower, aside from a few more complex ones she’d have to do tomorrow.
Miranda’s email, she’d conveniently decided to forget about.
“I thought I told you to mingle.”
Emma jumped. “Seriously, Leah! How do you even manage to sneak up on people in stilettos?”
Leah tilted her ankle, flashing her orange, studded Valentino heels. “Oh, please. These are practically tennis shoes.” She leaned in to peek at Emma’s screen. “At least it’s not your work email. Progress, I suppose.”
Emma stuffed the phone back in her clutch. “Well, you disappeared twenty minutes ago, and I don’t know how to start a conversation with Jared Leto.”
She cringed at how needy she sounded—way too sixth-grade cafeteria. But she hadn’t expected Leah to just vanish like that.
Leah snorted, tossing her glossy hair over her shoulder. She was wearing a clean-cut ivory dress, draped over the shoulders like a cape. It made her look like a cross between a superhero and a high-end lawyer.
“Asking about any number of questionable choices, perhaps. And sorry. I ran into Kay Bellamy in the powder room.”
A trace of jealousy pinched Emma at the mention of the name. She drowned it with a sip of lukewarm, flat prosecco.
“Right.” She forced her voice to be neutral. “Your next big star?”
Leah had started talking about Kay about a month ago. LA-based BookTok influencer turned debut author, resident darling of the literary world—and only twenty-two. For Leah, whose PR firm specialized in female writers, Kay Bellamy was a potential crown jewel.
Emma understood perfectly well why Leah wanted to represent her. But since she had been Leah’s latest conquest, and, as it seemed, a personal passion project for the last few months, watching her pursue Kay made Emma feel a bit thrown aside. Like a Christmas toy when the next birthday approached.
“Yes, hopefully,” Leah said, scanning the roof in a way that reminded Emma of the Terminator. “She’s cocky, that one. Thinks she knows best all by herself. But I got a good opening. She was out of tampons.”
“That’s your trade secret?” Emma asked dryly. “Always carry tampons?”
Leah nodded gravely. “Tampons, lip gloss, mini-perfume. The holy trinity. You’d be shocked at what doors it can open.”
Emma laughed, her first real one all evening.
“There she is.” Leah’s face softened. She nudged Emma’s chin with her fist, like a boxing coach in gold hoops. “Relax, Emma. You’re not here to hide in corners. You’re here to be brilliant, charming, mysterious.”
“I’m not mysterious,” Emma muttered.
“Sure you are. You write dark, magical stuff with soul-binding and sexy moral collapse. Just channel some of that main character energy.”
Emma shook her head. “Remind me again why I trust you?”
“Because I get results.” Leah clinked her glass against Emma’s. Her gaze flicked over Emma’s shoulder, mouth curving sharper. “And because I’m about to make your night.”
Something about that smile set off alarm bells. Emma tensed. “Leah, what are you—”
Leah reached past her smoothly, decisively, and tapped someone on the shoulder. A familiar-looking someone. Tall. Dark-haired.
Emma’s stomach flipped.
No.
No.
She didn’t just—
The man turned.
And Emma forgot how to breathe.
Darren Cole.
The floor dropped out beneath her, like she was falling and standing at the same time.
He was right there. Close enough to reach out and touch. A sudden, irrational fear struck her that she actually would.
“Darren,” Leah said brightly. “Leah Davies, Head of Leah Davies PR. I’ve got someone here you should meet. This is Emma Whitehart, author extraordinaire.” Then she looked at Emma with the innocence of a baby angel. “And Emma, this is Darren Cole. But maybe you already knew that.”
Emma stared at her, body completely frozen, as if standing very, very still would somehow get her out of this. It was unlikely. An unprepared, unexpected conversation with her celebrity crush of ten years would hardly be less awkward if she treated him like a T-Rex.
She aimed an icy smile at Leah, the kind meant to signal that she was going to kill her in her sleep for this. Or maybe throw her favorite pair of shoes off the Coronado Bridge.
Leah answered with an almost imperceptible tilt of her head, which Emma interpreted as: Noted. But get your priorities straight.
Fair point.
Because Darren Cole was still standing right there.
Emma swallowed, shot Leah one last eye-dagger, and finally looked up at him.
Something jolted in her chest as she realized how close he was standing.
He was wearing a soft black blazer over a charcoal T-shirt, sleeves pushed up.
Casually elegant in the way only people with unfair genetics could pull off.
His hair was slightly messy, as if he’d just run a hand through it.
And his eyes—God. Even darker than she’d expected.
Warm. Attentive. And entirely focused on her.
Everything else disappeared. The lights, the music, the darkening sky. For a heartbeat, nothing existed but those eyes.
“Author?” he said, tilting his head. The British lilt made the single word sound almost like a challenge. “Any characters I should know about?”
The world swam back into place around them. He was real. Here. Not some ethereal being but a person—flesh and blood and the slightest hint of cologne.
Leah was practically glowing. “Only if you’ve ever played a brooding antagonist with a god complex and soul-stealing tendencies.”
Darren’s mouth curved in a way that made heat pool low in Emma’s stomach. Her body was clearly hell-bent on sabotaging any attempt at composure.
“That does sound like my ballpark.”
“Emma Whitehart,” Leah said, and nudged her forward. “Darren Cole. You two should talk. Or smolder at each other. I’ll let you work it out.”
And then she disappeared, like a villain in heels. For half a second, Emma could only stare after her, dazed and helpless. Then there was nowhere to look but at him.
She wanted to run.
Or find a ficus to hide behind.
Or rewind time by ten months and decide to stick with her corporate job for the rest of her life rather than ever submitting a manuscript.
None of which seemed like an immediately viable option.
“Hi,” she pressed out.
Okay. Solid start.
Darren lifted a brow. “Emma Whitehart,” he repeated, as if tasting the name. “So you’re the one who wrote The Bonds of Light.”
“I . . . yeah.” She gave the tiniest shrug. “Guilty.”
Internally, her brain started firing on all cylinders. He knew who she was?
He tipped his glass toward her in a toast. “Congratulations on a very dedicated fan base. I’ve . . . encountered them once or twice.”
Heat climbed her neck. Stupid body. “Yeah, sorry about that. They have a type.”
His eyes glinted. “Do they now?”
The heat of her skin settled deeper, embarrassment shifting into something harder to name.
Thrill. Attraction. Recognition. That look—the one he gave on screen, all silk and voltage—was even more devastating in person.
She tried her best to look unaffected, but she was pretty sure her pulse was visible on her throat.
Darren lifted his hand toward her face.
Emma stiffened, her eyes going wide. Was this a dream? Had she passed out?
“Sorry,” he said, hesitating. “You’ve got a little—”
Oh. Shit. Her fingers flew to her cheek. “Glitter?”
“Yeah.” Amusement played around his lips. “May I?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. “Sure,” she mumbled.
His fingers skimmed her temple, and every neuron in her body fired off like it was New Year’s Eve.
Darren Cole. Was touching her.
Emma went statue-still. She felt his eyes on her face, but kept her own glued to his shoulder, as if it was the single most riveting thing in the Western hemisphere.
Her mind, usually ten steps ahead, could only manage one thought at a time: Don’t move. Don’t breathe too loudly. Don’t ruin this.
“Thanks,” she said, aiming for casual, even though his fingers were still sending sparks against her skin. “Cosplay contest. There was a . . . Twilight-related incident.”
Darren laughed, pulling back his hand. A few grains of glitter twinkled against his fingertips. “That’s not a sentence you hear every day.”
Emma shrugged sheepishly. “Comic-Con.”
“Right.”
Silence fell between them for a moment. Emma glanced up at him. There was a strange, unexpected stillness in the way he held her gaze. For once, she forgot to scramble for something funny or clever. The air between them felt charged, fragile, like something about to break—or ignite.
He seemed to hesitate, something earnest flickering across his face. “You know,” he began, “I’ve actually been meaning to—”
A woman in a pea green maxi dress came up behind him, placing a hand on his elbow. She was beautiful enough to be an actress—delicate features, a sharp, honey-colored bob—but the no-nonsense approach signaled handler rather than peer.
“Hi, sorry,” she said to Emma. “D, Max needs you one floor down. He’s talking to someone from HBO. Casting opportunity.” Her accent was British too, effortlessly sophisticated.
Darren frowned. “Can it wait?”
The woman leaned in closer. “The female lead is already cast. And her name starts with Z.”
She took half a step back, watching him expectantly.
Darren sighed. “Alright. Thanks, Sienna.”
His eyes found Emma’s again.
“I’m sorry, Emma,” he said, voice dipping low. Hearing her own name in that voice felt almost indecent. “Duty calls. I’ll see you around, I hope?”
She managed a nod. “Sure. It was a pleasure meeting you.” The words made her wince as soon as they left her mouth. Office Emma strikes again.
But Darren smiled as he retreated. “Likewise.”
Then he was gone, the woman in the billowing dress marching behind him like a sentinel.
Emma let out a shaky breath. Giddy relief surged through her, almost making her laugh out loud.
Every cell in her body felt alive, vibrating. She’d done it—held a conversation, however brief, with Darren freaking Cole without making a complete mess of herself. And to think that even in her fantasies, she hadn’t imagined more than a fleeting, wordless glance.
Her thoughts finally snapped back into place. Well, she was glad it had happened. Now she wouldn’t have to go home wondering what it might’ve been like to meet him. Though she was still definitely going to at least kidnap Leah’s favorite Louboutins.
She put her sticky prosecco glass away and went to get a fresh one that she sorely needed—pointedly ignoring the other voice in her head, small and uninvited.
The one whispering that maybe the relief of making it through the encounter was laced with something else.
The faintest hint of disappointment that it had ended so soon. Curiosity about what he’d been about to say.
And the traitorous thought that maybe—just maybe—she already wanted to see him again.