Zara Queen lives her life in bold colors. She dances for a living—literally—as one of the top performers at Club Mirage. Fierce, flirty, and unapologetically herself, she’s used to being wanted… but never truly seen. When her apartment floods, she ends up crashing with Liam Carter, a grumpy, emotionally closed-off single dad who thinks Zara is the human equivalent of chaos. He wants silence. She lives out loud. "You don’t belong in my world, Zara." “Then why do you keep looking at me like I’m the only thing keeping you alive?" Their roommate agreement had one rule: no touching. But rules were made to be broken, especially when sparks start flying and hearts start healing. "You strip for strangers, but the way you look at me... it’s like I’m the only one who’s ever seen you." As the lines blur between comfort and desire, Liam and Zara must ask themselves: can love grow in the space between damage and desire?
Lihat lebih banyakThe smell of coffee pulls me out of sleep before I’m ready. For a second, I forget where I am, my brain still stuck in the memory of peeling paint and the steady drip-drip-drip of water in my old apartment. Then I hear the faint clatter of mugs downstairs and remember—Liam Carter’s house. Spare room. Temporary.The floor is cool under my feet as I shuffle toward the kitchen, my hair an unbrushed mess and my sweatshirt hanging loose off one shoulder. I’m halfway down the stairs when I hear voices—Liam’s low rumble and a lighter, quicker voice that must belong to his daughter, Emily.“She’s still sleeping?” she asks.“She got in late,” Liam says. “Let her rest.”I turn the corner into the kitchen, and both of them look up. Emily’s sitting at the table with a half-eaten bowl of cereal, and Liam’s leaning against the counter, coffee in hand.“Morning,” I say, aiming for casual.“Morning,” Emily says brightly.Liam nods once. “Coffee?”“Yes, please,” I say, trying not to sound too grateful
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
By the time I’m in the alley behind the club, I’ve already ripped off my heels and shoved them in my bag. The pavement is wet from the rain, slick enough that I nearly slip twice on the way to my car. My adrenaline is buzzing in all the wrong ways now.The drive home is a blur of red lights and windshield wipers squealing against the glass. My landlord’s half-finished warning loops in my head like a broken record. The water—what? Overflowed? Burst? Turned my kitchen into a swimming pool?I try calling him back twice, but both times it goes straight to voicemail. I don’t even know why I’m so impatient. It’s not like I can magically fix whatever disaster is waiting for me.The rain gets heavier as I pull onto my street, the kind of steady downpour that makes the air smell like wet asphalt. My headlights sweep over the front of my apartment building, and my stomach drops. There’s water—actual, glistening water—spilling down the concrete steps that lead to my front door.I throw the car i
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
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