Chapter Eight

I stand in front of my mirror, dabbing cream highlighter along my cheekbones with my ring finger. The golden shimmer catches the light just right. My red dress hangs off the back of my chair—a silky mini with a sweetheart neckline and ruched sides that hug in all the right places. It's bold for me, but I'm not second-guessing it tonight. My blonde hair falls in soft waves, pinned up temporarily to keep it from getting in the way of my makeup.

I hum along to the faint music playing from my speaker as I swipe on a final layer of mascara. Lip gloss is next—something glossy, borderline edible.

A knock hits the door. Three taps, deliberate.

"Come in!" I call, not even looking.

Sandra pops her head in, already halfway into her black dress. Her dark hair is down in loose waves, and her makeup is mostly done—smoky eyes and a clean nude lip. She looks every bit the cool, dangerous type tonight.

"Hey," she says with a grin. "Room for one more?"

"Always," I reply, smiling at her through the mirror.

She plops onto my bed and lays out her jewelry—silver hoops, a dainty chain, a few rings. "Almost ready?"

"Almost." I pull my dress on and smooth the fabric, checking the mirror for anything out of place. "Just need to do my lips and decide if I'm brave enough for heels."

Sandra laughs. "You say that every time. You always wear them anyway."

"Not if I get drunk enough early on," I counter.

She chuckles and begins adjusting her own dress. It's a sleek, black mini with thin straps and a low back. Sexy and confident.

We move through the usual pre-night-out motions—hair touch-ups, perfume spritzes, matching necklaces to earrings. It's oddly calming, this ritual of getting ready. Like a spell we're casting together.

"So..." I start, trying to keep my voice light as I dab some gloss onto my lips. "How would you feel if... Noah got with someone tonight?"

Sandra pauses with one earring halfway in. She blinks, then scoffs softly. "I wouldn't love it," she says honestly, "but... I'm trying not to care."

I glance at her through the mirror.

"I mean, I like him, yeah. But if he's not that into me, there's no point obsessing. I'm not going to waste a whole night thinking about one guy."

I nod, carefully blotting my lips. "That's fair."

"I just want to dance," she continues, standing up to check her outfit in the mirror. "Flirt. Get free drinks. Pretend I'm not a disaster for a few hours."

I give her a look. "You're not a disaster."

She grins. "I am, but at least I'm a hot one."

I laugh, zipping up the side of my dress. "Cheers to that."

I pause, then add, "I'm gonna do the same. Have fun." And forget about Noah for the night, but I won't say that out loud.

Sandra nods like she approves. "Exactly. No wallowing. Just vibes."

We finish getting dressed, the music pulsing lightly in the background. My dress is tight enough to feel daring, but soft enough to feel like me. Sandra slides on her heels and fluffs her hair in the mirror while I strap on mine. I dab perfume behind my ears and along my collarbone. Sandra does the same.

When we're finally ready, we both pause and look at each other through the mirror.

"Damn," Sandra says. "We look good."

I nod on approval.

We head downstairs together, heels clicking dramatically on each step. As we walk into the living room, the chatter fades just slightly.

Noah—leaning against the counter, dressed to kill: white button-up shirt with the top two buttons undone, sleeves rolled up to reveal that sleeve tattoo, black jeans hugging him just right. He spots us and locks eyes with me; I bite my lip, suddenly my palms are sweaty and for a split second, it's like there's no one else in the room.

I bite my lip without thinking. His gaze flickers—there it is: a flash of something in his expression. Want. Surprise. Hunger, maybe? He doesn't move, but I can feel the tension, like a string tightening between us.

Harry is the first to break the silence.

"Okay, damn," he says, dramatically fanning himself. "Where are the cameras? These girls just stepped off a red carpet."

"Hell yeah," Luke adds, dropping to his knees. "I'm not worthy."

Sandra and I burst out laughing as Harry starts doing some over-the-top fashion runway walk around the living room.

"You two look incredible," Luke says, genuinely now.

"Thanks, boys," Sandra replies, brushing her hair behind her ear with a smirk.

Noah still hasn't said anything, but I feel his eyes on me. When I glance at him again, he's taken a sip of his drink, but his gaze hasn't strayed. He's watching. Quietly. Intently.

I remind myself of what I agreed on with myself earlier.

Tonight, I'm forgetting about Noah.

Even if he's standing there looking like the kind of trouble I don't have the strength to resist.

"Alright!" Harry claps his hands. "Taxi's coming in five. Everyone ready to be absolutely legendary tonight?"

"Born ready," Sandra says, already heading for the front door.

"Shotgun!" Harry yells.

"I swear to God, if I get stuck in the middle seat again..." I mutter, following behind them.

Behind me, I hear Noah's quiet chuckle.

I don't turn around.

Not tonight.

The taxi pulls away from the cabin with a shaky jolt, Harry already mid-rant in the front seat.

"I swear, Luke, if you mess with the Bluetooth without permission one more time, I will personally launch you into the lake."

Luke raises his hands in defense from behind us where him and Noah are sat. "You played Crazy Frog unironically, Harry. I had a moral obligation to intervene."

"It's a classic!" Harry protests, scandalized. "You're just culturally starved."

Sandra and I are laughing so hard I have to wipe mascara from under my eye. She clutches her tiny black clutch to her chest like it's the only thing keeping her alive.

"Is this what adulthood looks like?" she gasps through giggles. "Arguing about frogs and bass drops in a seven-seater taxi?"

"I feel like I'm third-wheeling their bromance," I reply, nudging her with my elbow. "We should've booked our own cab. One with a driver that serves champagne and doesn't threaten murder over Bluetooth."

Luke pokes his head through the middle of us, grinning. "You're welcome for the entertainment, ladies."

Sandra leans forward. "Do us a favour and save the entertainment for the dance floor. And maybe leave the pelvic thrusts at home tonight?"

"No promises!" he shouts, doing one in his seat immediately.

Harry groans. "You're going to get us blacklisted from every club in the city."

I lean my head back against the window, still chuckling, and let the night breeze slip through the tiny crack at the top. The laughter around me hums like background music, the kind that makes everything feel lighter.

Sandra nudges me, her tone teasing. "You've been quiet for a whole thirty seconds. What are you thinking about?"

I shake my head. "There's nothing wrong." I let out a small chuckle and she nods.

I am thinking about Noah. I've been trying not to, but every glance earlier, every half-second where our eyes locked and didn't move—it's all swirling around in my head like glitter in a snow globe.

Even now, I can feel him behind me, in that magnetic way.

But I shake it off.

Tonight is my reset.

No pining. No spiraling. No staring at Noah like he's the first man to ever own a white shirt and an arm tattoo.

Tonight is for lip gloss that sticks to cocktail glasses, for dancing like nobody's filming, for laughing until my cheeks hurt.

Tonight is for fun.

And maybe—just maybe—for forgetting everything else.

The cab takes a wide turn and someone shrieks—Harry again, probably—and we all sway together in the backseat, laughter erupting like a second wind.

Sandra catches my eye, still breathless from laughing, and for the first time all night I really believe it:

This might actually be a good night.