I told him what happened.
Asher’s eyes darkened with each word until they resembled storm clouds on the horizon.
“Come with me.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He placed a hand on the small of my back and guided me firmly toward the lounge’s entrance, where the hostess was chatting with security.
The guard tipped his chin toward us. She turned, her face lighting up at the sight of Asher.
“Mr. Donovan!” She straightened and smoothed a hand over her hair. “How lovely…” Her voice trailed off when she noticed me walking with him.
I wasn’t a petty person (most of the time), but I would be lying if I said her shock didn’t give me immense satisfaction.
“Asher Donovan and Scarlett DuBois,” he said smoothly, his hand still on my back. “My date.”
A second ticked past.
The hostess looked like she’d just swallowed a bucket of live maggots, but she eventually forced a smile and stepped aside.
“Of course.” She unhooked the rope, her shoulders stiff. “Please enjoy the party.”
“Thank you. Oh, one more thing.” Asher paused and looked her straight in the eye. “Disrespect her again, and I’ll make sure this is the last event you’ll ever work in London.”
The hostess’s face flushed crimson.
Surprise flashed through me, quick as lightning, followed by an irrepressible warmth as we entered the lounge and left her sputters behind.
“I’m sorry about that,” he said. “The door people can go on a power trip sometimes.”
“It’s okay.” I slid a sideways glance at him. “Your date, huh?”
“It sounded better than friend in the moment. Besides, it was worth it to see the look on her face.”
“Oh, I agree.” My grin matched his. “I thought she was going to go into cardiac arrest right then and there.”
“So are we?” Asher guided me through the crowded room. His palm burned through the fabric of my dress, leaving me slightly flushed.
“Are we what?”
“Friends.”
“I extracted an apology for you from a police officer and you put the hostess in her place for me, so I suppose we are.” We passed by a familiar-looking beauty with long legs and high cheekbones. I did a double take when I realized it was the supermodel Ayana. I loved her latest Vogue cover; Carina was going to die. “Whose party did you say this was?”
“Poppy Hart.”
I came to an abrupt halt. “Wait. This is a Poppy Hart party?”
Asher’s mouth tipped up. “You’ve heard of her?”
“I’m going to pretend that’s a rhetorical question,” I said, earning myself a deep laugh.
Everyone knew who Poppy Hart was. The model, socialite, and style icon sat in the front row of every major fashion show, headlined the VIP list of every major event, and chaired the board of every major charity. She was London’s latest It Girl and the ultimate arbiter of what was cool and what was not.
She was also famous for her ultra-exclusive parties, one of which I was attending right now.
Surreal.
“Fair enough.” Humor transformed Asher’s face into a softer version of itself. “I should tell you she has strict rules for her parties. No cameras, no harassment, and no fights—exactly like the Angry Boar, except fancier.”
That was an understatement. In the past five minutes, I’d spotted fire-eaters, dancers dressed as the seven deadly sins, and a world-famous DJ from Iceland in the sound booth.
Velvet banquettes lined the perimeter of the walls; crystals formed hanging sculptures in the shapes of stars and flowers and waterfalls. Haloes of LED light drenched the seating alcoves in futuristic purple while a bar stocked with only top-shelf spirits took up an entire wall.
I hadn’t seen Poppy yet, but the room was bursting with celebrities, socialites, and other varieties of young, rich, beautiful, and famous.
Asher and I stopped at the bar. He ordered us two house specials, whatever those were, and handed me one.
“So.” He examined me over his glass. “You changed your mind about coming.”
“Only because I didn’t have anything better to do.” I took a tentative sip. Whiskey mixed with something rich and sweet. It burned smoother than any drink I’d had before. “Don’t read too much into it. My appearance tonight is strictly platonic.”
“Good, because my invitation was strictly platonic.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
Our seemingly banal exchange didn’t curb the wild current charging around us, drawing our eyes together like magnets and forming a bubble against the noise and movement from the rest of the club.
