Page 55 of Playing the Field

Chapter Thirteen

Anastasia

Istare at my phone, my fingers tightening around it like it might physically pull me back to him if I let it.

You free tonight?

Graham’s text is simple. Direct. A handful of words that should be easy to answer.

And I did answer.

Can’t. I have plans.

I should feel relieved—that I kept my distance, that I didn’t immediately fold at the first opportunity to see him again. But as I toss my phone onto my bed and glance at my reflection in the mirror, all I feel is… conflicted.

Because I want to see him.

And that’s the problem.

What is a guy like him doing with someone like me, anyway? We’re almost twenty years apart in age, and I’m sure Graham would rather date someone who’s, I don't know, more mature, maybe? So what is he doing with the likes of me?

The weight of this morning still lingers in my chest—his hands on my body, his voice in my ear, the way he looked at me when I told him I didn’t regret it.

The way I didn’t regret it.

I shake off the thought and focus on the present.

Tonight isn’t about Graham. It’s about taking a step back, breathing, reminding myself that I have a life that isn’t tangled up in him.

And it starts with a night out with Vee.

I reach for my lip gloss and swipe a thin layer on, giving myself a final once-over in the mirror. Tight black jeans, heeled boots, a cropped silky top in a deep wine-red shade that makes me feel like I have my shit together, even if I don’t. My hair is loose in waves, makeup simple but intentional.

It’s a look that says effortlessly cool, not trying to distract myself from the man currently taking up too much space in my head.

Just as I grab my jacket, Vee pops her head into my room. “Damn. You really went for it tonight.”

I smirk, turning to face my best friend and roommate. “We’re going to the most hyped bar on King Street. If I show up looking like I just crawled out of my third espresso martini of the week, we’ll never get past the velvet rope.”

Vee leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over her fitted black dress, amusement flickering in her dark eyes. “Fair point.” A beat passes. Then—“But let’s be real. Are you dressing for them or for a certain billionaire rugby team owner?”

I groan, grabbing my bag as I brush past her. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”

She grins, grabbing her keys off the entry table. “Deny all you want, Bellows, but I see you.”

I roll my eyes but don’t argue. Because if I open my mouth, I might just admit that I hate the idea of Graham wondering who I have plans with tonight.

The second we step inside the bar, I understand why this place has been all over my social media feed for the past week.

It’s sleek, modern, and effortlessly cool—the kind of bar that knows exactly what it is and doesn’t try too hard. The lighting is low, a mix of warm golden hues and the soft glow of neon signs casting shadows against the exposed brick walls. A DJ tucked into the corner spins a mix of deep house and R&B, the bass thrumming low beneath the hum of conversation.

The main bar stretches across one side of the room, all polished marble and gold accents, lined with patrons dressed like they walked straight out of an editorial spread. The mixologists behind the counter work with the kind of smooth efficiency that tells me these cocktails are overpriced but worth it.

Vee grabs my wrist, tugging me toward an opening at the bar. “First round’s on me.”

I smirk, arching a brow. “What’s the occasion?”

She grins. “Because I live for a Friday night out, and because my best friend looks hot tonight.”