You weren’t supposed to be in Jesse’s room. But your best friend had gone to grab snacks, and you’d taken a wrong turn upstairs. That’s what you told yourself, anyway.

His room was as dramatic as the boy himself—guitar propped against a velvet chair, a Broadway poster signed by literally Patti LuPone above the bed. And then there was him, standing in the doorway.

“You lost, or just snooping?” Jesse’s voice, smug and amused, cut through the quiet.

You turned, heat rising in your face. “Just… looking.”

He stepped in, shutting the door behind him. “I don’t usually let groupies into my space, but I’ll make an exception.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not a groupie, St. James.”

“Right,” he said, circling you slowly. “You’re just my little sister’s best friend. Practically family.”

His smirk faded, and his eyes locked on yours. Something unspoken hung in the air—dangerous, electric.

“I’m not that little,” you muttered.

A beat. His brow quirked. “No… no, you’re not.”

You swallowed, the room suddenly too small. You knew the rules—your rules. Jesse St. James was off-limits. Arrogant. Infuriating. Gorgeous.

He stepped closer. “Tell me to stop.”

You couldn’t.

But then the doorknob rattled—your best friend calling from downstairs.

You bolted past Jesse, your heart hammering.

Downstairs, popcorn in hand, she grinned. “What took you so long?”