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I smile while fastening the last button on my blouse. “Depends who's askin’.”

“The fabulous gay best friend who has saved your life approximately twelve times this month,” he says dryly.

A laugh slips out. “Come in.”

Jules pushes open the door and looks me over from head to toe. His eyebrows climb. “Well, don't you look adorable.”

I smooth my hands down the front of my blouse. “You think?”

“Honey, if Alexei sees you in that outfit, you’re never makin’ it to the dance rehearsal.” He leans one shoulder against the doorframe and crosses his arms.

Heat creeps into my cheeks. “Oh hush now.”

“I'm serious.” Jules points toward me. “That man looks at you like you're the last biscuit at Sunday dinner.”

I roll my eyes, grabbing my purse from the desk. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” he says with a smug grin, “I'm right.”

He absolutely is. I hate that he's right.

Jules studies me for another moment, the teasing fading from his face. “You okay?” he asks.

The question catches me off guard. I nod, though it takes me a second. “Yeah,” I say softly. “I think so.”

He watches me for another beat as though he knows exactly what I'm not saying. Then, because he's Jules, he claps his hands together and ruins the moment completely.

“Excellent. Go collect your billionaire. Ivy has informed every living soul within a fifty-foot radius that she's starring in the greatest dance performance in modern history.”

A laugh escapes me as I shake my head. “She's excited.”

“She's vibratin’, Maggie.” Jules falls into step beside me as we head into the hallway. “It's honestly a little concernin’.”

I spot Ivy immediately. She's standing beside Mr. Pickle’s kennel, her sparkly dance bag hanging from one shoulder.

Alexei stands nearby, speaking quietly with Luka. He somehow manages to look like a billionaire magazine cover while discussing security.

Life really isn't fair.

As though sensing me watching him, Alexei turns. The conversation with Luka stops immediately. His attention settles on me, and the intensity in his expression sends warmth rushing straight to my cheeks.

Mercy.

That look ought to be illegal in at least forty-eight states.

I make my way toward them. Ivy sees me first.

“Maggie!” she squeals, bouncing on her toes. “Guess what? Mr. Pickles says he's supporting my dancing too.”

I blink. “Mr. Pickles told you that, huh?”

Ivy nods solemnly. “He said all great artists need emotional support.”

I laugh. “Well, Mr. Pickles sounds very wise.”

“He is,” Ivy assures me.

Alexei's gaze never leaves me.