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I had to laugh. He was absolutely shameless.

I hadn’t talked to Samson since we flirted last month. I felt bad about leaving him hanging on the party invite, but it’d slipped my mind with everything else going on. He didn’t seem upset though. He was as flirty and friendly as ever.

“Go flirt elsewhere, Opara. Your manwhoring is not welcome at this table,” Brooklyn warned. Knowing her, she was only half joking.

“Aw, come on, Brook. First you leave the team, now you’re insulting me in front of your friends?” Samson shook his head. “It’s like you’ve forgotten your roots.”

“Oh, I remember my roots just fine, which is how I know you don’t consider the word ‘manwhore’ to be an insult,” Brooklyn said dryly.

“Fair enough,” he acknowledged. “I don’t want to interrupt girl time, so I’ll keep this brief. My end-of-season party is coming up soon. You’re all invited, of course. But…” He turned to me. “I’d love it if you came as my date. I know I already asked, so it’s okay if your final answer is no. There’s absolutely no pressure at all. I mean that. However, I must inform you that attending as my date will unlock special VIP perks for you and you only.”

“Like what?” I asked, amused.

“Custom drinks. A private tour of my house. Rose petals and violinists, if you so wish.”

“Rose petals and violinists, huh? I didn’t realize it was that type of party.”

“It’s not. But it could be.” He grinned. “In all seriousness, I don’t expect anything except a dance or three. If we have a good time, then we can go on a one-on-one date. Or not. It’s very flexible.”

Hmm. I wasn’t interested in pursuing anything serious with Samson—the spark just wasn’t there—but he made a compelling case.

Brooklyn and Scarlett’s curious stares ping-ponged between us as I debated how to answer. I’d told them I didn’t want to date footballers so I understood their confusion, but what was the harm in attending Samson’s party with him? It was a low-pressure, low-stakes situation, and I could use a fun night out. I had no reason to say no.

My back tingled again. It took everything in me not to look at the bar, but I set my shoulders and kept my attention firmly on Samson.

“I’ll say yes as long as you promise there’ll be no rose petals or violinists,” I said. “Having live musicians follow me around would freak me out.”

His grin dazzled. “Deal.”

“What’s a deal?” A low, familiar voice cut through the air.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

The tingles transformed into dread. It formed a sticky pool in my stomach as I lifted my head and locked eyes with Noah. He loomed over the table, scowl in place, looking as moody and broody as ever.

Of course he chose this moment to come over. Of course. He had a knack for the most inconvenient timing ever.

“What’s a deal?” he repeated. No smile or greeting, just a terse demand for answers. How could this be the same guy who’d sat patiently through my hairstyling lessons and offered me a place to stay for as long as I needed? The whiplash from his flips between Public Noah and Private Noah could give Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde a run for their money.

I started to respond, but Brooklyn beat me to the punch. “Carina and Samson. She’s going as his date to the end-of-season party. It—ow!” She yelped when I kicked her under the table. “Why did you—I mean, ow! I accidentally hit my leg against the table leg,” she amended, quickly yet unconvincingly, when I sent her a frantic look.

I loved Brooklyn. She was talented at so many things, but acting wasn’t one of them.

My attempt to keep the date a secret from Noah was dumb anyway. He’d find out eventually, and it wasn’t as if I did anything wrong.

My rationalizations didn’t quell the apprehension that rippled down my spine. I drew in a small breath and steeled myself before meeting his gaze again. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting. Surprise? Irritation? A hint of jealousy?

I didn’t see any of that. Noah’s face was as smooth and blank as an empty canvas.

“Good for you,” he said.

I blinked. I had no idea who he was talking to. Apparently, neither did anyone else because a confused silence claimed the table.

What did he mean by that? Good for you. That was the type of passive-aggressive comment someone made when they were trying to hide their resentment—or when they simply didn’t care.

It was probably the latter, but a tiny part of me wished it were the former. Resentment would mean he cared, but I shouldn’t care whether he cared if I was going on a date with another guy.

I gritted my teeth, annoyed at myself for trying to twist his indifference into something deeper than what it was.