A buxom fan saunters in my direction. But she's not interested in me. I am invisible to her.

Her eyes are on Drew. She smiles. She shoves her hand in his face like I'm not here. "Oh my gosh. You must be Drew Denton. I'm such a big fan."

He shakes her hand, no signs of interest on his face. "I am."

She drags her fake red fingernails over Drew's forearm and thrusts her chest at him. "I love Sinful Serenade," she slurs. "You're soooooo good with your hands."

The worst thing about having a rock star guitarist for a best friend is hearing that line over and over and over.

Drew's lips curl into a smile. A smug expression creeps onto his face. "That's what I'm told."

And there's the second worst thing—hearing him give that same flirty response to every fan who is too rude to acknowledge the girl sitting next to him. Is it that obvious we're just friends or is she too desperate to care?

"Do you think... oh, gosh. Could you sign my, um..." She giggles. "My chest?"

His eyes dart to said chest. It's hard to blame him when her top is cut down to her belly button. No judgment. I've worn far sluttier things. Hell, my current getup could go toe to toe with this girl's in a who is showing the most boob competition.

A girl has to do what she can to get what she wants.

Apparently, this girl wants Drew's attention on her cans.

It's working. His eyes are wide. His mouth is open. He's staring like he's thinking about burying his face between her boobs.

Not that it bothers me or anything. Not like I want him to look at me that way. Not anything like that.

I adjust my bustier top for maximum cleavage potential and push myself up from my seat. Drew looks at me for a second, then his attention goes right back to the fangirl.

She drags those red fingernails up his biceps. "How do you stay so... fit on tour?"

He smiles. "On the floor."

She gasps like she's not at all familiar with the concept of push-ups. He smiles, all cocky and smug and totally cool.

He never flirts like this.

Never.

It shouldn't bother me. He's my friend and he can flirt with anyone he wants.

Doesn't mean I have to watch it.

I make my way to the dance floor, through the horde of twenty-something beautiful people here for the scene and not the music.

It's a pulsating, throbbing, electronic thing. Perfect. I step onto the vinyl. Eyes closed. Arms over my head. I shift my hips back and forth. No fancy moves. Just instinct.

The fangirl's hyena laugh cuts through the room. I must be imagining things. There's no way she's louder than the music.

Drew is still talking to her. Not so much flirting but certainly staring at her cans.

This tension builds in between my shoulder blades. It's all wrong. My body is loose and free when I dance. Tension is not part of the equation. And Drew is my friend. He's flirting with a floozy. So what? He's a rock star. He probably flirts with lots of floozies.

He probably fucks them too.

My nostrils flare. I shake my head and press my eyelids together. No. I refuse to feel this right now. I refuse to feel anything except the music.

I throw myself into dancing. The world melts away, one piece at a time. The rest of the club. The hyena laugh. Drew's wide-eyed, lust-filled smile as the fangirl mauls him.

It's not even on my mind.

I move closer to the speakers. They drown out every other thought inside my brain. I'm only a vessel for the music. My hips move of their own accord. My chest shifts. My arms sway.

I'm free.

And then there are hands on my hips. Strong hands. A guy's hands. It's a normal part of clubbing. Usually one I enjoy.

But this feels off. I take a step forward to break free of the hands, so it's nothing but me and the music. Better. That tension between my shoulder blades relaxes. I drift into bliss...

The damn hands are back! I turn to face this guy. He's tall. Broad. He looks like a TV actor—handsome but not out-of-this-world hot. Any other night, I'd welcome him as a dance partner.

I throw my arms above my head and match his movements. He's a good dancer—perfectly in time with the rhythm. It's not all together awful.

He takes a step toward me, so he's pressed up against me. Those hands go to my hips again. No more bliss. I'm utterly on edge, tense and strained in all the wrong places.

"Excuse me." I make my way to the bar, some area free of guys with too few manners to ask permission.

The guy follows me. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"No thank you."

"Come on. It will be fun." He grabs my wrist. The left. Right above my silver watch.

I pull my hand into my chest. Manners be damned, next time he does that, I'm slapping him.

I offer my most polite smile and shake my head. "No thank you. I'm here with someone."

"Who?"

Fine. I hate using this line, but it's the only thing that works on guys like this. "My boyfriend."

The guy takes a long, hard look at me. At my cleavage, mostly. That awkward, awful tension builds between my shoulder blades again.

What the hell? This is supposed to feel good. A hot guy is checking me out. A hot guy wants to press his body up against mine in time with the music.

"Your boyfriend lets you go out like that?" he asks.

"Believe it or not, I have this funny thing called free will." I step backward. "And I don't let guys tell me what to wear."

"Your boyfriend sounds like a pussy."

"I'll let him know your feelings." Okay. The bar thing isn't working. Time for the nuclear option. I make my way to the women's restroom.

The guy follows. "I only want to talk."

"And I don't."

I take a quick step, but, even with my heels, I've got short legs and this guy is all kinds of tall. He's faster than I am.

He grabs my wrist. The right. I shake it off. No slapping necessary. Yet.

"You don't have to be so rude," he says.

Obviously, I do, because he's not taking the hint. I turn so I'm facing the asshole. Anger flares in my gut. I manage to hold my tongue. There are merits to telling this guy what he can do with that grabby hand, but it seems silly to cause a scene. It's easier to slip away with a careful excuse. No conflict necessary.

"Excuse me, ladies' room," I say.

He reaches for me again. Left wrist this time. Okay, that's it. I pull my hand free and go to slap him.

Someone stops me. His hand closes around my tricep. There's something right about it. Something magical.

It's Drew. Drew's hand is tight around my arm. Drew is touching me.

He looks at the asshole guy. "Can I help you?"

The guy looks at me with disbelief. "This is your boyfriend?"

I throw Drew a please play along look. "Yes. And we're very busy tonight."

"Is this guy bothering you?" Drew asks.

"It's fine."

"It doesn't look fine." Drew's eyes narrow. He stares down the guy. "You followed her across the dance floor."

He was watching me?

"We were having a conversation," the guy says.

"You grabbed her. Do it again and it will be the last time you ever touch anyone or anything beautiful," Drew says.

The guy holds Drew's stare. Trying out some kind of intimidation and failing miserably. I almost feel bad for him. Idiot has no clue what he's in for.

The guy takes a step back. He mutters under his breath. "She's not even that hot."

"We both know that's not true." Drew slides his hand around my waist.

But the guy is still staring at us.

I turn to Drew. I slide my arm around his neck to sell the whole we're clearly a couple thing.

But the guy is still staring at me.

Drew stares back at him. "Either you leave in the next thirty seconds or we take this outside."

It does nothing to scare the guy off.

I grab Drew's arm and squeeze as hard as I can. No way I'm going to be responsible for the kind of fight that will get all three of us kicked out of the club.

Drew turns back to me. He takes my arm and places it around his shoulders. It's like he's promising this won't get out of hand.

His eyes find mine. He mouths, You trust me?

I nod. Yes. Of course.

His palm pressed into my lower back, pushing my body into his. He leans closer. His eyes close.

Mine do the same. Pure reflex. I rise to my tiptoes.

His lips brush against mine. A quick kiss to start. Then it's more. He sucks on my lower lip. He digs his other hand into my hair.

My heart picks up until it's going so fast I can't keep track. I'm aware of every inch of my body. The light feeling in my chest and stomach. The strain of my calves. The flutter building between my legs.

This is why I dance.

Drew releases me. He steps back and looks as if to check that the coast is clear. His demeanor shifts. No longer my fake boyfriend. Just my best friend. "You okay, Kara?"

"Yeah."

His arms goes back to his sides. His body moves away from mine. My heart is still racing. My chest is still light. I'm still acutely aware of every place that stretches, of every flutter or rush or buzz of electricity.

Drew kissed me.

For show, but still.

Drew kissed me and my entire body is still in overdrive.

Drew. Kissed. Me.

And, God I want him to kiss me again.