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So yeah, that shit isn’t happening again.

Not tonight. Not ever.

I stay glued to Amanda’s side as we follow Carter through the crowd toward the long dining table he’s set up beneath the glass ceiling of the arboretum.

Guests are already settling into their seats, champagne glasses catching the light while waiters move silently between them.

Amanda walks beside me quietly.

I can feel the adrenaline still humming through her body.

She always gets like this after a performance.

Electric.

Shaky.

Beautiful.

And I know for a fact she doesn’t want to eat right now.

She never does.

Years ago she explained it to me while we were sitting on the floor of her apartment at two in the morning.

The rush of performing hits her so hard, it makes her nauseous afterward.

Back then I used to bring her tea and crackers while she came down from the high.

Now? Now I can only pull out her chair.

She looks up at me for half a second before sitting.

And then I grab the chair right beside her.

Carter does a visible double take.

Clearly, the bastard expected me to stand somewhere behind the table like a decorative plant.

Not happening.

I sit down slowly, meeting his stare without blinking.

For a moment, I watch the irritation flash across his face.

Then it vanishes.

Smooth.

Practiced.

Money man trick.

He glances toward his assistant—Debra, with her knuckles white because of the stranglehold she’s had on her clipboard all night—and she immediately begins scrambling to adjust the seating arrangement.

Another chair appears.

Another place setting.