The night Julian Wright orchestrated his "rose ceremony," everyone expected a full meltdown.
They were taking bets—would I show up sobbing, or would I skip straight to the roof? After all, everyone knew I was broke. Without Julian's money, I'd be out on my ass.
But when Julian handed that rose to campus queen Chloe Miller, the ballroom doors never opened. No crying. No scene. The whole party lost its main event.
What nobody knew was that while Julian was busy playing bachelor, I was sitting on his half-brother's leather couch in nothing but an oversized white dress shirt. Bare legs tucked under me.
I glanced up at Vincent, catching my lower lip between my teeth. "Your couch is soaked. Where exactly are you planning to sleep tonight?"
Vincent Wright's throat worked. Hard. He dragged his gaze away like it physically hurt. When he spoke, his voice came out wrecked: "Stay put. I'll grab a towel."
A beat. Then rougher: "Need to get you dry."
