No Touching Allowed

The first beat of the bass hits me right in the chest, and I swear my pulse syncs to the rhythm. Out here, under the hot pink and electric blue lights, I’m not Zara-who-worries-about-the-electric-bill or Zara-who-has-to-pretend-she’s-fine-when-she’s-not. I’m Zara Queen. Performer. Goddess. Whatever they want me to be.I know they’re all watching me—men with their mouths half open, women giving me that mix of envy and curiosity, the kind that says, “I wish I could do that.” I feel the stares slide over my skin like warm oil. The sequins on my two-piece catch the light with every turn, sparkling like I’ve got stars sewn into the fabric.The song is loud enough to make the floor vibrate under my heels. I let it carry me, let the music curl through my limbs, bending my spine and stretching my arms out toward the crowd. My hair catches the air when I spin, my lips curling into a smirk I’ve practiced a thousand times in the mirror but still somehow feels natural up here.I make eye contact

The rain hasn’t let up by the time I pull into a quiet residential street. It’s the kind of neighborhood where the lawns are too neat, the houses too close together, and the porch lights glow like they’ve been waiting for company.My GPS announces, “You have arrived at your destination,” in that smug tone that makes me want to argue with it. The address Marissa sent me matches the house in front of me—a simple two-story with a dark blue exterior and white trim. The front porch light is on, but the blinds in the windows are drawn tight.I sit there for a second, engine running, palms sweating on the steering wheel. Every nerve in my body is screaming, Turn around. This is a bad idea.It’s not like I have options.I check my phone again. There’s a new text from Marissa: Just knock. He’ll be grumpy, but he won’t let you sleep in your car.Grumpy is putting it nicely. I remember Liam Carter from that barbecue—tall, broad, and radiating the kind of serious that makes you straighten your po

I don’t usually consider myself a morning person, but if I’m awake, I want the morning to be alive. Music, coffee, maybe a little dancing around in my pajamas—nothing crazy, just… not dead silence.The thing about Liam Carter’s house? It feels like a library. Even the floorboards seem to creak politely.So, at eight-thirty, after a long hot shower and a caffeine kick from the extra-strong coffee he left in the pot, I decide it’s time to add a little life to the place. I pull up my playlist—bright, poppy, perfect—and crank the volume on my phone’s speaker.It’s not ear-splitting, but it’s definitely not background noise either. I’m halfway through making scrambled eggs, dancing barefoot in front of the stove, when I hear it—the heavy tread of footsteps coming down the hall.A moment later, Liam appears in the kitchen doorway, hair mussed, T-shirt rumpled, and eyes narrowed like I’ve just committed a federal crime.“Is this some kind of test?” he asks, voice low but sharp.I grin, flipp

I’m not saying my cooking style is messy… but if the Food Network ever needed a show called “Cooking in Controlled Chaos,” I’d be their girl.The kitchen smells amazing—garlic sizzling in butter, onions softening, pasta boiling away—and also looks like a rainbow exploded in it. Cutting boards with half-chopped vegetables, a smear of tomato sauce on the counter, an open bag of shredded cheese leaning against a box of crackers that I may or may not have been snacking on mid-recipe.Emily sits at the counter, swinging her legs and grinning like this is the most fun she’s had all week. “Can I stir again?”“Absolutely,” I say, handing her the spoon. “You’re the official sauce queen.”She dips it into the pan, stirring carefully while I grab a handful of fresh basil and start tearing it over the pot. Leaves scatter across the stovetop, some fluttering to the floor. Oops.That’s when Liam walks in.He stops dead in the doorway, eyes scanning the ro

 Morning sunlight creeps across the ceiling when I open my eyes. My head feels heavy, but not because of work—because of Liam. Or more specifically, because of the way Liam looked at me last night.Like he didn’t want to look. Like he couldn’t stop.That flicker in his eyes has been replaying in my brain like a song stuck on repeat, and I hate it. Because the last thing I need is to wonder what my grumpy, judgmental, emotionally constipated roommate thinks of me.Dragging myself out of bed, I tie my hair into a messy bun and pull on a loose T-shirt with shorts. I don’t exactly feel like strutting around in rhinestones when Liam Carter already caught me looking like a walking disco ball.When I walk downstairs, he’s in the kitchen. Of course. Standing there like some kind of domestic ad, pouring black coffee into a mug, all tall and broad in a navy shirt that clings way too well to his sho