Bryce parked beside the other vehicles and sat for a moment with the engine off, watching the Ironstone house glow against the dark. Music spilled from the open windows, low and pulsing, and the porch light caught the silhouettes of people moving inside.
He checked his phone—no messages—then smoothed the front of his shirt, a dark button-up he’d bought in town two days ago, still stiff with newness.
Grant had been specific about this one.
Dress nice, he’d said at the barbecue. Not a barbecue. You’ll see.
Bryce had stared at his wardrobe that evening, at the faded work shirts and the one good flannel, and wondered what the hell “nice” meant to a man who lived in a half-finished cabin with a folding table for company. The shirt had cost more than he’d spent on clothes in a year. He’d left the tags on until this morning.
He got out and walked toward the house, boots crunching on the gravel, and the door opened before he reached it.
Grant filled the frame, grinning wide, a beer already in his hand.
“There he is.”
Grant stepped aside, waving him in.
“Thought you might’ve got lost.”
“Took a wrong turn at the cattle grid.”
Bryce stepped past him, and the warmth of the house hit him like a wall.
Music, voices, the smell of perfume and beer and something cooking. The lights were low, dimmed in a way he’d never seen at Ironstone, and the familiar living room had been rearranged—couches pushed back, the coffee table cleared, space opened up for bodies to move.
And there were bodies.
Everywhere.
The women were dressed like they were going somewhere, not staying home. Fitted jeans and short skirts, tops with necklines that dipped and exposed, midriffs bare, boots still on their feet like a promise.
Adele Hart caught his eye from across the room, blonde ponytail swinging, and raised her glass.
Tessa Morgan stood near the kitchen doorway in a sundress that stopped mid-thigh, her strawberry blonde hair loose around her shoulders, glasses perched on her nose, and she smiled at him like she’d been waiting.
The men wore good jeans, polished boots, shirts with the top buttons undone. Callan’s usual flannel was replaced with a crisp blue button-up, and Ethan had actually tucked his in.
Bryce suddenly felt the weight of his new shirt, the collar still too stiff, and wondered if he’d gotten it wrong anyway.
“Beer.” Grant pressed one into his hand. “You’re behind. Catch up.”
Bryce took a long pull, the beer going down easy, and let Grant steer him into the current of the party.
Names came at him—some he knew from the trek, some he didn’t—and he shook hands, nodded, laughed at jokes he only half caught.
The music shifted, something with a beat, and people moved with it, hips swaying, shoulders brushing.
Tessa found him within minutes.
She slid up beside him, close enough that her arm pressed against his, and tilted her head to look up at him.
“You made it.”
She said it like it was a small victory.
“I was starting to think you’d bail.”
“Told Grant I’d come.”
“You told Grant.” She smiled, slow. “What about me?”
Bryce took another drink.
“You told me to come riding. Didn’t say anything about this.”
“Fair.”
She reached up and straightened his collar, her fingers brushing his neck.
“But you cleaned up nice. I approve.”
Bryce felt the heat of her fingers against his neck.
“Thanks,” he managed.
Tessa laughed, low, and let her hand drop.
“Relax, Black. It’s a party.”
The night moved in waves.
Bryce found himself passed from conversation to conversation, Grant’s hand on his shoulder, Adele’s teasing, Ethan’s dry jokes.
Holly Bennett appeared at his elbow at one point, blue hair bright under the dim lights, and grinned up at him.
“Bryce. Finally.”
“I’m here.”
“Eventually.” She hooked her arm through his. “Come on. I need backup for the punch.”
The punch turned out to be spiked, and strong.
Bryce drank it because Holly handed it to him, and because the music was loud and the room was warm and everyone around him was laughing.
He found himself leaning against the kitchen counter, Holly pressed against his side, her hand on his forearm.
Then the tequila appeared.
Someone produced a bottle, amber liquid catching the light, and a chorus of cheers went up.
Salt, a bowl of limes, shot glasses clinking.
Bryce watched the ritual unfold—Adele doing a shot off Ethan’s wrist, Tessa licking salt from Callan’s hand—and thought he might slip away, find a quiet corner.
But Elara had other plans.
She appeared beside him, a shot glass in each hand, her hazel eyes bright with mischief. Her chestnut hair was loose tonight, falling past her shoulders, and she wore a fitted top that showed the bronze skin of her throat, the swell of her chest.
Bryce had seen Elara in work shirts and mud-splattered jeans a hundred times.
This was different.
“You’re not getting out of this,” she said.
“Out of what?”
“Tequila. Properly.” She set the shot glasses on the counter and picked up the salt. “You’ve never done a real one, have you?”
“I’ve done tequila.”
“Not like this.”
She gestured to the crowd gathering around them, grinning.
“Everyone, Bryce needs an education.”
The room turned.
Bryce felt a dozen pairs of eyes on him, felt the heat creep up his neck, and Elara just smiled, calm and unhurried.
“Here’s how it works.”
She picked up a shot glass, tipped it against her chest, and slid it between her breasts, the amber liquid held snug against her skin.
Then she tilted her head, baring the curve of her neck, and sprinkled salt across her collarbone.
She bit down on a lime wedge, holding it between her lips, and looked at him.
“Salt,” she said, her voice slightly muffled. “Shot. Lime. Go.”
Bryce stared.
The room had gone quiet, everyone watching, and Elara stood there, utterly composed, her eyes holding his.
“Elara—”
“Go on.”
The crowd murmured. Someone laughed.
Bryce stepped forward, close enough to smell her perfume—something warm, floral, mixed with the salt and the faint scent of tequila.
He leaned down.
His mouth found the salt on her neck, his lips brushing her skin, and he tasted it—sharp, crystalline—before he pulled back.
The shot glass was still nestled between her breasts, and he reached for it, his fingers brushing the fabric of her top, the warmth of her skin beneath.
He lifted the glass, tipped it back, and the tequila burned down his throat, hot and raw.
Then her lips were there, the lime wedge between them, and he took it from her mouth, his lips brushing hers for the barest second.
The citrus cut through the burn, sharp and clean.
The room erupted.
Cheers, applause, someone wolf-whistling.
Bryce stepped back, his face burning, and Elara laughed, pleased, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
“There,” she said. “Was that so hard?”
Bryce shook his head, still tasting the salt on his lips.
“You planned that.”
“I planned nothing.” She picked up another shot glass. “I improvised.”
The party surged around them.
More people took their turn, the ritual spreading through the room like a current.
Holly announced, loudly, that she deserved the same attention, and the room roared as she tried to balance a shot glass on her chest, failed, and turned around instead, bending over the counter.
“Can’t compete with Elara,” she said, her voice muffled. “But I’ve got other assets.”
She placed the shot glass in the cleft of her buttocks, salt on the small of her back, lime between her lips, and the room dissolved.
Callan took the shot, laughing so hard he nearly choked, and Holly straightened up, grinning, triumphant.
Bryce laughed too.
People moved differently as the night wore on.
Couples drifted together and apart, hands lingering on waists, lips brushing cheeks. Adele sat on Ethan’s lap, her arm around his neck, while Tessa leaned against Callan, her hand on his thigh.
Across the room, Bryce saw Piper Owen laughing at something Grant had said.
A little later they were gone.
Bryce noticed only because Grant had been standing beside the drinks a moment earlier and now neither of them was there.
Elara crossed the room.
Grant reappeared sometime later and caught her hand as she passed, pulling her close and kissing her slow and deep. She laughed against his mouth and said something Bryce couldn’t hear.
The music shifted again, slower, and couples began to dance.
Bryce found himself pulled onto the floor more than once—Tessa first, her hands on his shoulders, her hips moving against his in a way that made his mouth go dry.
Then Holly, who grabbed his hands and spun him around, laughing.
Then Adele, who danced with him like it was the most natural thing in the world, her body close but not pressing, easy, unselfconscious.
He was awkward.
He knew it.
His feet didn’t know what to do, his hands hovered uncertainly, and every woman he danced with seemed to find it endearing rather than off-putting.
“You’re thinking too much,” Tessa said, her mouth close to his ear. “Dancing’s not a math problem.”
“Feels like one.”
She laughed, her breath warm on his neck.
“Just move.”
He tried.
He moved, roughly in time with the music, and she pressed against him, her body warm and solid.
The night blurred after that.
More drinks, more laughter, the music getting louder and the lights getting lower.
Bryce found himself on the couch at one point, Holly curled against his side, her hand on his chest.
He needed air.
He needed quiet.
He extracted himself carefully and made his way through the house, past the kitchen where someone was mixing drinks.
Grant was back among the party.
Piper wasn’t.
Bryce kept walking.
He passed the hallway where two people he didn’t recognise were pressed against the wall, mouths together, hands roaming over clothes.
He found the lounge room at the back of the house, dark and quiet, the couch long and empty.
He sank into it, closed his eyes, and let the noise recede to a distant hum.
He didn’t know how long he lay there.
Minutes, maybe.
The music thumped through the walls, muffled, and the darkness was cool against his heated skin.
He was drifting, half-asleep, when he heard the door open.
Soft footsteps.
The rustle of fabric.
“Bryce?”
He opened his eyes.
Piper Owen stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the light from the hallway. Her black hair fell around her shoulders, her dark eyes fixed on him, and she moved into the room with a quiet, deliberate stillness.
“Hey.”
She sat on the edge of the couch, close to his hip.
“You okay?”
“Just tired.” He didn’t move. “Needed a minute.”
“I get that.” She was quiet for a moment, her hands folded in her lap. “Parties are a lot.”
“Yeah.”
She turned to look at him, her eyes large in the dim light.
“Can I stay? Just for a bit?”
Bryce hesitated.
“Sure,” he said. “For a bit.”
She smiled, small, and shifted closer.
Her hand found his arm, light, tentative.
“You’re nice,” she said. “I like you.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean it.”
She moved closer still, her body pressing against his side.
“I’ve been watching you all night. You’re not like the others.”
Bryce’s skin prickled.
“Piper—”
“I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
Her hand slid up his arm, to his shoulder, her fingers curling against his neck.
“And I don’t think you do either.”
He caught her wrist gently and held it still.
“Piper. I’m not—”
“Don’t say no.” Her voice was small, almost desperate. “Please. Just for tonight. I don’t want to think about—”
She stopped, swallowed.
“I just want to feel something.”
Bryce looked at her.
“I can’t,” he said. “I’m sorry. I just want to sleep.”
She didn’t move.
Her hand stayed against him, her body pressed close.
“I’m horny,” she said, blunt, raw. “I’ve been waiting all night for someone to notice me, and Grant—”
She stopped, her jaw tightening.
“He didn’t want me.”
Bryce shifted away from her.
“Piper.”
“But you—you’re different. You’re kind. Please.”
“I’m sorry. No.”
She stared at him.
Then moved closer again.
“Just let me stay here.”
“I want to sleep.”
“I won’t bother you.”
“Piper.”
She tried to settle against him anyway.
Bryce sat upright.
“No. I said no.”
Her head came up.
“I heard you.”
“Then stop.”
“I just want to lie here.”
“And I don’t.”
Her expression tightened.
“Why?”
“It doesn’t matter why.”
“You let Holly hang off you all night.”
“That’s got nothing to do with this.”
“I’m not asking you to fuck me.”
Bryce rubbed a hand over his face.
“I want to sleep. Alone.”
Piper folded her arms.
“Fine.”
But she didn’t get up.
Bryce looked at her.
“Piper.”
“What?”
“Go.”
She stared at him.
The door opened.
Elara stood there with Adele just behind her.
“What’s going on?”
Piper looked away.
“Nothing.”
Bryce swung his feet to the floor.
“I’ve asked her to leave.”
Elara looked at Piper.
“He wants to sleep.”
“I know.”
“Then leave him alone.”
Piper’s mouth tightened.
“I wasn’t doing anything.”
Adele leaned against the doorframe.
“Come on, Piper.”
Piper stood abruptly.
“Fine.”
She brushed past Elara and Adele and disappeared into the hallway.
The room went quiet.
Bryce sat back against the couch.
Elara looked at him.
“You alright?”
“Yeah.”
Adele glanced toward the hallway.
“She’s had a shit night.”
Bryce rubbed his eyes.
“I gathered.”
Elara crossed the room and sat briefly on the edge of the couch.
“Get some sleep.”
“Planning on it.”
Adele smiled.
“Good luck with that.”
They left.
Bryce lay back down.
He woke later to hands on his face.
Something cold, slick, dragging across his cheek.
Bryce’s eyes snapped open.
Elara and Adele stood over him, grinning, their hands full of makeup—lipstick, eyeshadow, something glittery.
“What—”
“Hold still.”
Elara pressed a tube of lipstick to his forehead, leaving a red smear.
“You missed the party. You get the aftermath.”
Adele laughed, drawing a heart on his cheek with a liner pencil.
“You’re too easy a target, Black.”
Bryce groaned, but he didn’t fight it.
He lay there, let them decorate his face, his shirt, felt the lipstick kisses pressed to his jaw, his temple, his collar.
They laughed, delighted, and he found himself laughing too, a low, resigned sound.
When they were done, they stepped back, admiring their work.
“Beautiful,” Elara said.
“Gorgeous,” Adele agreed.
Bryce looked down at himself—lipstick smeared across his shirt, glitter on his neck, a heart drawn on his cheek—and shook his head.
“You’re both terrible people.”
“We know.”
Elara leaned down and pressed one last kiss to his forehead, leaving a red imprint.
“Sleep well, Bryce.”
They left.
Morning came with light through the curtains and the smell of bacon.
Bryce woke stiff, his face still sticky with makeup, and made his way to the kitchen, where the party had reassembled—subdued, pajama-clad, nursing coffee and plates of food.
“Look who survived.”
Grant grinned, sliding a plate toward him.
“The human canvas.”
Bryce sat down, accepted the plate, and ate.
The conversation flowed around him—stories from the night before, laughter, teasing.
At some point Piper’s name came up.
“She was pretty upset after Grant knocked her back,” Adele said.
Bryce looked at Grant.
Grant shrugged.
“It wasn’t happening.”
That explained enough.
Someone laughed about Bryce disappearing before half the night was over.
Adele looked at Elara.
Elara looked back at her.
Both started laughing.
Bryce looked between them.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Elara said.
“That doesn’t look like nothing.”
Adele hid her smile behind her coffee.
Grant looked at them.
“Oh, Christ. What did you two do?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
Bryce looked at the lipstick marks still faintly visible on his shirt.
“I already know what they did to me.”
Elara smiled into her coffee.
“Not everything was about you, Bryce.”
Adele nearly choked on hers.
Bryce looked at them for another second.
Then went back to his bacon.