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RAE
Harry: Stay out of trouble tonight.
Rae: Always do.
Harry: Bullshit. You’re a magnet for it.
Rae: It’s why you love me.
Harry: One reason of many.
Harry: Enjoy the bachelorette. Tell Annie and Elle I expect my bride-to-be returned to me in the same condition she left in.
“For the longest time, I couldn’t figure it out,” Elle calls as we make our way through the packed nightclub. “What is there to like? He’s rich. British. Famous. Infamous.”
I grin as I sink into the booth, opposite Elle and Annie.
Of all the surprises tonight, I didn’t expect the masks. They’re a stroke of genius by my friends as well as a nod to my request for anonymity: a gold one for me, a silver one for Annie, and a red one for Elle. Each is beautifully detailed, with scrollwork and sequins and feathers.
No security. No chance of being recognized. Just me and the women who’ve had my back since before I knew how to ask for that.
The waitress, also wearing a mask, brings a bottle of champagne on ice.
The girls planned a night at a club, one I haven’t been to but have heard of by reputation.
“Is there anything that doesn’t sound hot in that accent?” Elle presses.
I reach for my drink. “Not really.”
“That’s what I thought. But I don’t think it’s the accent. Or the money. No, I think the true reason you’ve got it so bad is…”
I take a sip, the dry bubbles tingling on my tongue, and arch a brow.
“…the suits.” Elle nods toward the stage in front of us. “Welcome to Paradise, Little Queen.”
The music starts with the familiar bassline of one of my tracks. The black velvet curtains part, and a man in a tuxedo emerges.
Then another.
And another.
Except instead of tuxedo shirts, their jackets and bowties leave tanned, muscled chest in between. Two with dark hair and one with blond hair, all of them probably fitness models. Not my type because only one man has been for a long time.
Laughter bubbles up until my shoulders shake against the leather of the booth.
In front of the stage is an entire dance floor, dozens of women and a few men already on it.
The blond guy from the stage makes a beeline for me, flashing bright teeth.
“You’re getting married,” he whisper-shouts.
“How’d you guess?”
“You have this vibe that says you’re looking for a final party. I’m Kacey.”
“It says so on your suit.” I nod toward the tag on his chest.
“Yeah, but I’m not gonna have it on much longer, so I wanted you to know.” He tugs, and the entire jacket tears away to reveal a seriously cut torso and abs.
