Tonight is New Year’s Eve, and the party Ashton was planning with Mal back in Ireland has been canceled. It would have been a great opportunity to take pictures, but clearing the air with Cal is of higher importance.

“That’s a wonderful idea.” Callum smiles down at me, and my heart breaks into a trillion pieces.

You did this. You basked in Mal’s warmth, not even realizing he was burning everything around you.

“It really is,” Mal agrees, shifting toward me. “There’s only one, tiny obstacle standing in the way.”

“Which is?” I narrow my eyes.

“Reality,” he deadpans. “Richards and I have decided to stay here until Monday, too. You know, change of scenery and all. Great way to get the creative juices flowing.” Mal grins down at me wolfishly.

Must.

Not.

Kill.

The.

Gorgeous.

Poet.

My jaw locks so hard it’s about to snap, and it occurs to me that Mal is just crazy enough to tell Callum what happened before I get the chance to. Mal is probably reading my mind, because the way he looks at me says trouble.

“Well, we’ll get out of your way, Malachy. Rory and I certainly have a lot of catching up to do.”

Callum turns to me and drops a kiss on my head, no doubt thinly veiling his sexual intentions.

“No truer statement has been spoken in this elevator.” Mal smirks, looking skyward, shaking his head.

Bastard. Why can’t I like the sane one? Why?

I turn my head to flash Mal a warning look, but he refuses eye contact with me, staring straight ahead.

The elevator dings, and Mal gets out, walking right behind us, even taking Callum’s suitcase and rolling it along the corridor. “Before I forget, there’s been a change of plans,” he says. “Richards is throwing a party tonight in his penthouse after all. Stars are coming from all over Europe. I think Alex Winslow is cutting short his vacation with his wife and kids in the south of France just to say hi. It’s going to be wild, and therefore not a place for a sweet lady like our Rory.”

He knows there’s no chance in hell I’m going to leave the hotel now. This is the stuff Ryner dreams about. The kind of crazy, old-school, rock-star party full of familiar faces, where people swing from chandeliers and write songs in the corner of the room and create plaster molds of penises and drive Rolls Royces into swimming pools.

We stop at Callum’s door. I look up at him and play with my nose hoop. He shakes his head with a smile.

“Let’s stay and go to the party. Who cares where we are, as long as I’m inside you?”