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The man is tall and silver-haired, with the kind of expensive tan that screams tropical islands. The woman on his arm wears emerald satin that drapes across her body like liquid light. Her diamonds catch the chandelier glow and throw it back into the room as if she owns it.

“Eden,” West says softly in my ear, “this is Harold and Victoria Markham. He produced three of last year’s biggest films. She runs half of Broadway.”

They turn toward us and Victoria’s eyes sweep over me with practiced grace. “And who is this vision?” she asks.

West squeezes my hip, pulling me infinitesimally closer. “This is Eden. My wife.”

I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to that.

“You’re a dark horse,” Victoria says. “We had bets that you’d be a bachelor longer than Clooney.” She glances over his shoulder, like she’s searching for drama. “Does Selena know?”

It’s weird, but I don’t even have to follow her gaze to know who she’s looking for. The tall blonde in the dressing room. The certainty pulls at my stomach. As though he can read my mind, West curls his arm tighter around me.

“No idea,” he says, like he honestly couldn’t give a damn. “Eden, you should talk to Victoria and Harold about charitable donations some time,” he says to me. “Eden is saving the world, one gray water system at a time.”

“Ooh, you’re a conservationist.” She grins at me. “I should introduce you to Mark Ruffalo later. He’s big into saving the world.”

“The Hulk?” I question. God, this is weird, all these names I’ve only ever seen on a movie theater screen all in the same place. A second ago I swear I saw Emily Blunt and John Krasinski by the bar.

“First, I’d like to dance with my wife.” West takes my champagne glass and puts it on a table.

“Wait,” Victoria grabs my hand. “Let’s talk later. When West isn’t here.”

Shaking his head, West leads me away. “You’re not talking to Mark Ruffalo,” he whispers in my ear. God, he sounds grumpy at the thought.

I love it.

“Do you really know all these people?” I ask him, as we pass somebody who looks very much like Robert DeNiro. He pats West’s shoulder in easy recognition, like they’ve known each other for years.

“Most of them. And they’re not as glamorous as you think.”

The string quartet moves onto another piece, and I realize that people are dancing. West inclines his eyes at me.

Do I want to dance with the most handsome man in the room? Hell yes. I take his hand.

“Is thisStar Warsthey’re playing?” I ask as he leads me onto the dance floor.

“No, it’sSuperman,” West tells me.

“The Henry Cavill one or the Ben Affleck one?” I ask him.

He groans. “The Christopher Reeve one. Christ you make me feel old.”

“That’s because you are old.”

His brow lifts, his mouth curving dangerously. “Remind me why I married you again?”

“Because I have a kink for geriatrics.”

He lets out a low laugh, pulling me closer until my chest brushes his. The heat of his hand on my back makes me melt into him. I love how safe he makes me feel. How desired.

When I look up, he’s staring down at me, his eyes dark. Full of need.

His mouth claims mine, slow but firm, and the whole glittering ballroom blurs around us. The strings swell, people laugh, but all I can feel is him. His lips, warm and demanding. His hand at my spine, anchoring me against his hard body. His tongue brushing mine, coaxing me to give him more.

Heat curls low in my stomach, my knees softening until I’m half leaning into him, half floating.

When he finally breaks away, my breath is ragged, my lips tingling. “West…”