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I should’ve seen it coming. A small part of me had expected it. But picturing it paled in comparison to seeing it play out in front of me in real life.

Her mouth on his. His hands on her. Their bodies pressed together.

To the world, they looked like nothing more than a passionate couple. To me, they…

My blood roared in my ears, drowning out the rest of my thoughts. An eternity had passed since I stepped through the front door, and I should look away lest curious onlookers put two and two together. But my muscles refused to heed my brain’s commands—my feet were rooted to the spot; my eyes were glued to Carina and Samson. If I tried to forcibly move, I might fall apart at the seams.

“Do you want a drink?” Whitney’s voice sounded light-years away. “Adil said there’s an open bar in the back garden.”

Whitney. My date.

The reminder floated through my head with clinical detachment.

She was the one I should’ve grabbed first in the car. Instead, I’d reached for Carina without thought. It’d been instinct, a reflex born out of the desire to keep her safe, and it’d fucked me over.

Enduring a car ride with her on my lap had been torture enough. Actually touching her while pretending I didn’t care had been unbearable.

“Noah?” Whitney’s voice drifted in one ear and out the other again.

Samson and Carina finally broke apart. He wore a shit-eating grin. He whispered something to her, and she responded with a smile and a blush.

A fresh spike of blistering jealousy punched a hole clean through my chest, and I couldn’t breathe deep enough or fast enough to replace the air leaking out of my lungs.

Seeing them interact so intimately was worse than seeing them kiss. A physical connection was one thing. An emotional bond was another. What if they started dating seriously? What if…

Again, my thoughts deteriorated into shambles as loud ringing replaced the roar of blood in my ears. Every rationale I’d concocted for why I couldn’t get romantically involved with Carina crumbled alongside them. Our contract, keeping my nose clean in light of the Andersons’ potential custody suit, and even Evie’s reaction, to an extent—they ceased to matter in that moment.

If I could force myself to move, I’d march over and rip her away from him, onlookers be damned. I didn’t give a shit about my hypocrisy or the consequences. I just knew that I couldn’t let Carina fall in love with someone else. I wouldn’t survive it.

“Noah.”

Bile coated my throat. Carina and Samson were whispering to each other again, and⁠—

“Noah.”

A hand on my arm shattered the spell. I whirled around. “What?”

Whitney took a step back, her eyes wide.

Shit. I rubbed a hand over my face, clearing my vision. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m…still upset about losing today’s match. Seeing Samson just reminded me of it.”

She relaxed. “That’s okay. Let’s get you a drink. It’ll help take the edge off.”

I agreed with a terse nod. I couldn’t resist a glance back on our way to the bar, but Carina and Samson were already gone.

Whitney kept the conversation alive during our walk. I tried to focus, but my mind was already conjuring horrible scenarios of where Carina could be and what she might be doing with Samson.

“I have an upcoming commercial for the cutest activewear brand…” Whitney rambled on, either unaware or uncaring of my lack of interest. She seemed nice enough, but I couldn’t care less about her modeling gigs or her dog’s favorite toys.

I’d forced myself to pay attention to her in the car because Carina had been there. I had to cover up the fact that this was my first time talking to Whitney beyond our brief introductions via text, and I’d also needed a distraction from Carina’s proximity. Adil’s car was so fucking small, and when we’d stopped at that red light, she’d accidentally rubbed against me in the most mind-obliterating way. Hearing about Champagne’s bowel movements had been the only thing that kept me from getting hard.

Carina would’ve felt it. Whitney too. And that would’ve led to an even bigger mess than the one I was currently entangled in.

A gust of cool air hit my overheated skin. We’d arrived at the back garden, which housed the temporary bar and makeshift dance floor for the party.

“Sorry, I’ve been hogging the conversation all night,” Whitney said as I ordered us drinks. “Tell me more about you.”

I gave her a basic answer about growing up in Michigan. She pressed for more, and I tried. I really did. But my heart wasn’t in it, and I could sense her mounting frustration as the conversation dragged on.