Torn Apart (Torn and Bound Duet 1)

His eyes meet mine, and the corners of his lips curl into a sexy smirk. It’s not smarmy like that douche Brayden, but instead playful. Even from across the room, he exudes confidence, but it’s clear he isn’t cocky. He knows he’s good-looking, but he isn’t arrogant.

“He’s cute,” Sasha muses, envy and jealousy in her tone. Sasha’s entire purpose in life, and her reason for going to college at the prestigious Atlantic Pointe University, one of the most elite and expensive colleges in Michigan, is to find a rich man who will take care of her, just like her daddy does. “And, if I’m not mistaken, wearing Ralph Lauren,” she adds.

It’s actually Tom Ford. I noticed the distinctive cut immediately, but I don’t point that out. It would only raise questions I have no desire to answer. What Sasha sees is what she gets. I don’t give any more than what it takes to fit in. I save the real me for Ashton.

The good-looking man raises his glass, silently letting me know the ball is in my court. I can raise mine back, thanking him for the drink, or—

“Mia,” Tori hisses. “You better go over there before another woman claims him.”

Without giving myself time to overthink this, I allow my feet to take me over to him. When I get closer, I notice his hair is dirty-blond, trimmed neatly on the sides and slightly longer on top. His eyes are a shockingly bright blue. And his watch that’s peeking out from under his suit jacket is Vacheron Constantin, priced at twenty-five thousand dollars. I know that because my mother bought one for my father after he caught her cheating on him with her co-star and she needed to smooth things over. My heart squeezes at the thought of my dad. I haven’t seen him in several months and I miss him like crazy.

“Thank you for the drink,” I tell him, stepping into his space. I’m so out of my element here, but maybe this is just what I need—not a husband like Sasha and her posse are looking for, but a distraction, someone to make me stop thinking about my openly gay best friend who views me like he would his cute little sister, if he weren’t an only child.

“It’s my pleasure,” he purrs, his smirk shifting into a breathtakingly beautiful smile. “I’m Drew.” He extends his empty hand, and I give him mine.

“I’m Mia,” I tell him as he raises our hands and stands, interlocking our fingers. His grip is firm and strong, his fingers long and thick, which makes me wonder if the saying is true about hands and feet and—

“Dance with me, Mia,” he croons, stepping so close our bodies are flush against each other. My eyes glide up his tall frame. I’m five-foot-four with a few added inches thanks to my heels, and he’s still a good head taller than me.

His eyes dance with lust, and I find myself nodding in agreement. He reaches for my still full drink, but before he can take it, I down it in one gulp, the burn of the alcohol giving me a false sense of confidence.

I set my drink on the bar top and then he guides us to a somewhat empty part of the dance floor. His arms wrap around my waist, and he grinds his body against mine to the music.

For the next couple hours Drew and I dance and drink and laugh. We don’t talk about anything of consequence, and I’m okay with that. We simply have a good time.

And when we find our way to a darkened corner of the club and his mouth crashes against mine, his tongue delving between my parted lips, I push aside my need to fit in, my messed up family, and my attraction to my best friend, and allow myself to get lost in the moment, in the here and now.

I stay lost in the moment when he breaks the kiss and murmurs against my lips, “I have a room upstairs…” He leaves the statement hanging, but I know what he’s trying to say.

“Let’s go,” I say in response, refusing to second-guess myself.

He entwines his hand in mine and pulls me down the hallway and up the stairs. There’s a single door at the top and, after unlocking it, we enter. It’s a small room, with only a single dresser on one side, a kitchenette on the other, and a queen-sized bed in the center.

“I just moved here,” he says. “This is just temp—”

Before he can finish his sentence, I crash my mouth against his. I should probably care why he’s staying here, or where he came from. But I know if I don’t get us back to where we were a few minutes ago, I’m going to overthink things and chicken out.