“I was going to tell you earlier,” I added. “But I, um, forgot.”
I’d wanted to tell him during Monday’s training. But after seeing him with Polina and our subsequent moment in the studio, sharing such an important milestone with him first seemed too dangerous. Too intimate.
So I hadn’t.
Nevertheless, a pinprick of guilt pierced my skin at the hurt in his eyes. Not only had I not told him, but I probably wouldn’t have brought it up at all had Carina not mentioned rehearsals.
“That’s okay.” Asher smiled, the flash of hurt smoothing into one of indifference. The boulder sank deeper to my toes. “I’m just glad you’re participating.” He checked his watch. “I have to run. I have an online interview in an hour.” He stood and slid a fifty-pound note onto the table. “Next round’s on me. As a thank-you for letting me crash your girls’ night.”
“That’s way too much for drinks here,” Carina protested.
“Three rounds then,” Asher said easily. He glanced at me.
I remained quiet, trying to reason away my niggle of disappointment at his departure. I hadn’t wanted him to join us, so why was I upset about him leaving?
He hesitated, then added, “My friend’s throwing a party in Neon’s VIP lounge later tonight. If you guys are free, you should drop by.”
“We’re not big clubbers,” I said before Carina committed us to something neither of us wanted.
The last time we clubbed, I’d spent half the night holding her hair back while she puked up four shots worth of tequila. Afterward, it took us fifteen minutes to reach the exit because it’d been so packed.
Would I like to repeat that experience? No, thank you.
“Sadly, it’s true.” Carina sighed. “I wish we were fun club people.”
The tiniest hint of amusement tugged on Asher’s lips. “I’ll add your names to the list anyway in case you change your minds.” His gaze slid back to me with a brief, inscrutable flicker before he left.
The crowd parted without him uttering a word and closed just as easily once he was gone.
“Yeah, screw what Vincent thinks,” Carina said after Asher was out of earshot. “He’s so into you, and he checks all your criteria. Good-looking, single, employed, and not a prat? Hello, perfect match.”
“Those are your criteria, not mine, and let’s not forget his playboy reputation.”
“Oh, so you wouldn’t mind if I went after him?” Carina smirked at whatever she saw on my face. “Exactly. Your death glare just gave you away.”
“I did not give you a death glare, and he’s not into me. Not really,” I said. “Maybe he thinks he is because I’m the only woman he’s seeing on a regular basis this summer.”
I wasn’t trying to be self-deprecating; it was the truth. He was a famous footballer. What were the chances he was actually, truly interested in me?
Carina shook her head but didn’t press the issue. “Jokes aside, are you really going to skip the party tonight? I know we’re not club people, but it’s an Asher Donovan invite. Can you imagine the VIPs who’ll be there?” She let out a dreamy sigh. “Sadly, my parents are staying with me, so I can’t go even if I wanted to. I don’t want to deal with their lectures about ‘drugs and debauchery.’”
Whenever her parents visited, they stayed with her for at least two weeks. I couldn’t imagine staying with my mother for that long as an adult—we’d kill each other by day three—but it was a cultural thing. Asian daughters simply did not banish their elders to a hotel when they had a perfectly serviceable flat.
“If you change your mind and you do go, you have to tell me every detail after,” Carina said. “I’m living vicariously through you at this point.”
I shook my head. “Sorry, but tonight’s a book-and-bed type of night,” I said. “Trust me. There’s no way I’m going to that party.”
CHAPTER 17SCARLETT
In my defense, I hadn’t planned on changing my mind.
After Carina and I left the Angry Boar, we parted ways—her to meet her parents for a West End show, me to my flat and my comforting Saturday night routine of tea, reading, and pajamas.
However, I couldn’t focus on Isabella Valencia’s latest thriller for the life of me. I usually loved her books, but I found myself zoning out every other paragraph.
Instead of following the sociopathic detective’s adventures in hunting down another sociopath, my concentration kept scattering into images of a trendy nightclub and green eyes.
After I reread the same line four times without comprehending a single word, I gave up and closed the book with a frustrated sigh.
I was a single twenty-six-year-old living in London, and this was how I spent my weekends: alone with fictional sociopaths.
It’d never bothered me before, so why did I feel so restless now?
After all, there was nothing wrong with staying in. A book and tea were far superior to battling drunken strangers for breathing room in a sweaty nightclub. Right?
It’s not about the club. It’s about who’s there.
I groaned and sank deeper into my armchair, covering my face with my book as I did so. I was too ashamed to look at my reflection in the dark telly screen.
The smart thing to do would be to stay home and unravel the mystery of the mountain town murders.
The stupid thing to do would be to brave a taxi ride and London nightlife simply because Asher invited me to a party hosted by someone I didn’t even know.
Silence pressed in from all sides.
The clock ticked, counting down the minutes to eleven.
