When he’s standing directly in front of me, his towering frame eclipsing the party before us, I hesitate to look up into those dark, hypnotic eyes. But I can’t help myself. He completely disarms me of all good, God-given sense.

“Come with me,” he demands, before turning toward the exit of the suite.

“But . . .” That single words stops him in his tracks but he doesn’t face me. “But what about my husband?”

I’m cringing before the sentence has even fully escaped my lips. What about my husband? What the fuck am I saying? If Tucker wasn’t standing here, would I have posed that same question?

Ransom looks over his shoulder and shrugs. “Bring him too.”

Of course. Of course, I would bring him. Why wouldn’t I? And why would I ever put myself in a position where I’d even have to question that?

When it seems like I’m still debating the decision in my mind, Tucker takes my hand and gently pulls me toward the direction of Ransom’s retreating back. He doesn’t wear the same awkward look of confusion as I do. Maybe he’s much more sober than I, able to sift through whatever illusion I’ve created in my head.

I allow Tucker to pull me out of the suite as Ransom leads us to another room, away from the drunken fray of sweat-slickened bodies and vibrating bass lines. We’re far enough that the crowd has thinned and we’re able to slip in the unoccupied suite undetected. It’s one of the smaller penthouses, and while it is just as luxurious, it’s much more understated in its décor.

“Have a seat,” Ransom mutters, his voice low and serious. He makes a beeline for the wet bar and grabs two beers, handing one to Tucker. Then he turns his attention to an ice bucket cradling a chilled bottle of champagne. Odd, considering that he doesn’t like the stuff, according to Caleb. He pops the cork and pours a single glass, and brings it over to the couch where I sit, my legs and arms crossed over my body in nervous defense. I take the glass thankfully, although I don’t need it, and soothe my suddenly parched throat with a large gulp.

“So . . .” Ransom begins, settling into an armchair across from the couch Tucker and I occupy. The way his body slides into the seat so gracefully, as if he’s so sure of every bit of his body, evokes thoughts in my head that I have no right to think. He positions his left ankle over his right knee. “Why do you want me, Heidi?”

I choke on my champagne.

Full on coughing, sputtering, retching choke. Tucker pats my back, which is completely unnecessary, and I wave him off. When I lift my reddened face from my hands, tears smudging my mascara, Ransom is standing in front of me, offering a bottle of water. I accept it with a nod and down half the bottle.

“Thank you,” I croak, my voice hoarse. Oh my God, this is a disaster already, and I still haven’t figured out what the hell I’m doing here. I clear my throat a few times and look up at Ransom, head high despite my watery eyes. “What do you mean?”

Ransom raises his brows and looks at Tucker and then back to me. “Um, why do you want me . . . as a client? Why do you want to work with me?”

I let out a relieved sigh. Business. We’re here to talk business. Of course. Why the hell else would we be here?

Feeling foolish, I muster up a confident smile. “Suffice to say, you’ve been in the press quite a bit, and not all of it positive. Not a big deal, because we all know that any kind of publicity is good publicity. But there’s a fine balance between the effects of good press versus bad press. And I want to make sure that even your bad press is shown in a positive light.”

“Such as?” He sits back in his chair and takes a swig of his beer.

“Your feud with Cash Colby.” I hold up a hand before he can even attempt to explain. “It’s not my job to prove if it’s true or not. It’s my job to ensure that whatever it is generates record sales. That’s it.”

“But that’s not even the issue. Cash and I are fine. He’s an attention whore and I’m a cocky asshole. That’s our dynamic and it always has been. It works for us.”

“But does it?” I inquire, raising a brow. “That may be how you see things, but is that what everyone else sees? Because to your fans—the ones that purchase concert tickets and buy albums—there seems to be discord, which results in breakup rumors. And breakup rumors gets people imagining that they can actually hear the disconnect in your music. Which, inevitably, makes them not want to support you. Following my drift, here?”

Ransom touches his index finger to his lips, contemplating my words. Then he sets down his beer bottle and begins to fish for something in his back pocket. He pulls out a small cigarette case and opens it up on the coffee table between us, revealing a neatly wrapped joint.

“You mind?”

“Not at all,” I answer. Tucker shakes his head beside me.

Ransom sparks it up and takes a long, deep pull. The potent smell of marijuana hits me hard, heightening my champagne buzz. Still, I grab my glass and take a nervous sip. After another drag, Ransom leans over and offers the joint to Tucker, who looks at it as if it’s a crack pipe. His gaze wanders to me and I shrug. I can see it in his eyes—he wants to be young and reckless again. He’s tired of playing it safe. So with the very tips of his fingers, my husband accepts the joint.

At first, he takes a tentative pull, just enough to fill his lungs with the aromatic smoke. After exhaling, he brings it to his lips again. Ransom and I are both watching him, waiting for him to freak out, but that moment never comes. Instead, he releases a chest full of smoke and passes the J to me.

Let’s get one thing straight. I’m never the type to engage in irresponsible behaviors with my clients, let alone illegal ones. But as it stands, Ransom Reed is not my client. Not yet, at least.

I take the small, thin joint between my manicured fingers and bring it to my MAC Russian Red painted lips. Inhaling deeply, I let the sensation sweep through me, disarming all the anxiety rattling my senses. I take another puff and pass it back to Ransom before relaxing back into the couch cushion.

“You know that shit’s not true,” he says, his voice strained from just taking a hit. Smoke billows out from between his lips. “That rumor about me being the biological father of Striker’s unborn child? It’s not true. I’ve never touched Trudy.”

“I believe you,” I say, going for the last of my champagne, my mouth growing unbelievably dry. I drain it in one gulp. Tucker, being the caregiver that he is, gives me a quick peck on the side of my face and jumps up to retrieve the bottle. He refills my glass just as Ransom passes him the joint.

“And that bullshit with Cash . . . that’s just us. Ever since we were kids. So whatever bitch is claiming that we brawled over her, she’s a fraud.”

“Could it be possible that you both slept with her?”

Ransom frowns, but now that we’re all feeling pretty nice, it just makes him look adorable. His already slanted eyes are just mere slits but I can still feel the intensity of his gaze on me. What is it with this guy? Why does it always seem like he’s studying my every move, as if he’s trying to figure me out. Tucker studies my words, my expression, trying to get into my head. Ransom . . . it seems like he’s trying to get into something else.

“What do you mean?”

“Did you both fuck her?” I ask flatly. No need to beat around the bush.

Ransom makes an amused face. “Like a threesome?”

I shake my head, feeling hot blood rush to my cheeks. “No, no. Not like that.” A lazy smile slides onto my face. “Or maybe . . . yeah. Exactly like that. Like a threesome.”

Both Tucker and Ransom break into chuckles, and for some reason I can’t comprehend, I join them. It’s ridiculous—I’m smoking weed with a potential client, asking him if he had a threesome with a bandmate? This is so not me. But fuck it, why can’t it be?