I screw my face in annoyance. I’m not used to taking orders from anyone, especially Caleb. He notices my scowl and shoots me a knowing smile, his dick growing an inch, no doubt. “You’re in, Heidi. He likes you. He just likes fucking with people.” And he heads into the hallway, ducking and dodging worshipping band sluts in ripped Ransom tees and short skirts.

“That was . . . interesting,” Tucker says, as we both stare after the closed dressing room door. We can clearly hear the sheer fuckery on the other side, but we stand completely frozen in shock, as if we’re in the wake of a tornado. That tornado being Ransom Reed.

“Interesting? That guy’s a dick! He should be lucky I’m even entertaining the idea of representing him.” I go straight to the champagne with every intention of draining the entire bottle. This whole situation has got me wound so tight, I don’t even bother with a glass. I just take it straight to the head.

“Relax, babe. You heard Caleb—he likes you. You know these entertainer types are all about dramatic effect,” Tucker reasons. “Besides, he’d have to be a fool not to hire you.”

Tucker finishes off his beer in a few hearty swigs and chucks the bottle in the nearby trashcan. Then he comes up behind me, sliding his hands up my bare arms before resting them on my shoulders. When he begins to knead, I feel the tension slowly ease out of me.

“Just listen to what he has to say,” he coos, bringing his lips to graze the shell of my ear. I lean back into his touch, until my backside hits his groin. “And if you don’t like what you hear, we will at least get a nice night out together.”

“And free booze,” I add, taking another drink from the champagne bottle.

As always, Tucker is right. After several more swigs of bubbly, I’m feeling relaxed and optimistic about my next interaction with Ransom Reed. I mean, so what, he’s ridiculously sexy and so drop-dead gorgeous that it makes my eyes hurt. Even if he’s been cursed with the dreaded asshole gene, he’ll be pretty to look at. And let’s face it—I’m used to dealing with assholes. Hello, Justice Drake, anyone? And I’m two parts asshole myself.

When Caleb reenters a good while later, both Tucker and I are pleasantly tipsy, having raided the dressing room’s mini fridge. We’re noshing on a cheese and fruit platter when he tells us it’s time to head to the after party.

“Where’s it at?” I ask him as he leads us outside where his ride awaits.

“The Royal. Penthouse.”

The Royal? That’s a modest choice, considering that most entertainers would surely choose the swankier offerings, like The Plaza or Ritz-Carlton. But, then again, the papzz would expect that.

“Which penthouse?” The Royal has three of them, all boasting a nightclub sorta vibe.

“All of them,” Caleb answers, pulling out his phone to reply to a text.

We ride the short distance in companionable silence until we reach our desired location, which, honestly, isn’t much to look at from the outside. Caleb leads us to the elevators, stopping briefly to greet a few industry folks. We take the ride to the top where the party is already in full swing.

What the preshow festivities lacked in booze and boobs, the after party more than makes up for it. We step into the largest suite, which is crammed with wall-to-wall partygoers who look as if they’ve been at it for at least an hour. Everyone is beyond toasty, the music is loud and the lights are dim. I can barely make out anyone familiar, although I suspect the largest packs of girls have band members smuggled between them.

“Where’s Ransom?” I shout at Caleb over the music.

“He’s here somewhere. Grab a drink, have some fun. He’ll turn up somewhere.”

I turn to my husband, who looks just as out of his comfort zone as I am. Don’t get me wrong—I haven’t always been this square. But penthouse parties haven’t been my thing since my twenties.

“Come on,” he says, grasping my hand and leading me through the crowded room. We stop at what appears to be a bar. It’s littered with various bottles of alcohol, champagne, wine, and beer. He finds a clean flute and pours me a glass of bubbly before snagging himself a beer.

“When in Rome,” he says, smiling in a toast. That smile is a picture of beauty. And unfortunately, I don’t see it half as much as I used to. I take a sip of my drink and grin right back at him.

Ok, maybe one night of fun won’t hurt. What’s the worst that could happen?

Chapter Four

It’s close to midnight, and Tucker and I are three sheets to the wind, and one sip away from being pissy drunk. Surprisingly, we’re having fun. The music and jovial atmosphere are infectious, and by the second drink, we find ourselves moving together to the rhythm, our bodies pressed close together. I can feel Tucker growing against my backside as he sways to the beat, and I encourage it by rubbing my ass against the threat of his erection. We shouldn’t be doing this—someone could see us. But with the lights this dim and the room this crowded, we can’t find a good reason to stop. Especially when Ransom Reed, the whole reason we’re here, is nowhere in sight.

As if he’s heard his name in my thoughts, the crowd parts, and I glance up to find him across the room, sitting on the back corner of a couch. He’s ditched his stage clothes and is dressed casually in worn jeans and a white V-neck that’s just tight enough to display cuts of impressive, lean muscle. A slouchy beanie sits on his head that reveals longer front layers of dark brown hair. He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees and a beer in his hand. And he’s staring right at me. Even with scantily clad women hanging all over him, vying for his attention, his intense, dark gaze is pressed solely onto me. I’m not sure what I should do, so I keep moving side to side with Tucker right behind me, flexing his hips into the curve of my ass seductively.

I feel soft lips moving along the side of my neck and I melt into the enticing touch, yet keep my stare trained on the exotically alluring man across the room. There’s a woman sitting between his legs, her body angled so her face is in his crotch. I can see her hand moving against something, but I don’t see anything nor does he react to what she’s doing. Another woman leans over to whisper in his ear before letting her tongue trace the line of his jaw. Yet another desperate groupie is behind him, rubbing his shoulders. He doesn’t move. Hell, it’s hard to tell if he’s even blinked since we locked eyes.

I know whatever is transpiring between us right now is inappropriate, both professionally and personally. Tucker could look up at any moment and easily see Ransom eye-fucking his wife. And if that weren’t enough, he would see his wife . . . taking it. Eye-fucking him right back while her loving husband sweeps tender kisses up and down her neck.

This isn’t me. I’m not irresponsible or reckless. I never put my own personal feelings before business. And sure, I’ve had plenty of opportunities to explore the prospect of sleeping with other men. I just never truly craved the feel of a stranger’s body pressed against mine, touching me, kissing me, filling me. Until now.

A look of resignation flashes in Ransom’s eyes and he suddenly climbs to his feet, leaving his harem lonely and dejected. My heart pounds faster, harder, as he stalks toward me, and everything around me ceases to exist. The music, the people, even my husband. I shouldn’t let him have this power over me and my body, but he already does. And he’s never even touched me.

I hold my breath, holding back frustrated tears as fear and guilt spike in my veins. I don’t understand what’s happening. Is it the champagne? Quite possibly. But I’ve never behaved like this before, and I’ve always been able to hold my own. No, alcohol is no excuse for what I’m feeling.