The first thing you learn about Asher Donovan is that his reputation isn’t exaggerated. He’s every bit as infuriating as he is magnetic, a walking contradiction who thrives on the razor-thin line between charming and impossible. Movie-star gorgeous doesn’t even begin to cover it—he’s the kind of beautiful that makes people reckless.

You’d been warned, of course. Your brother Vincent had made it very clear: Stay away from Asher Donovan. And it wasn’t just overprotective sibling talk. Vincent and Asher’s rivalry was infamous—tabloid gold, fueled by bruised egos and Premier League drama, a bitter feud that had made headlines almost as often as their goals.

Your worst mistake? Agreeing to watch a horror movie with Asher Donovan.

The “summer assignment” as Blackcastle’s new athletic trainer had already thrown you into the deep end, but nothing could’ve prepared you for the freak thunderstorm that hit the city just as you were about to leave Asher’s penthouse. With roads flooded and storm warnings lighting up your phone, he’d insisted—grinning, of course—that you stay the night. What was meant to be a quick professional check-in had turned into a night marooned in the lion’s den.

Now, you’re perched stiffly on the edge of his absurdly expensive leather couch, arms wrapped around your knees as eerie violins build toward another inevitable jump scare. Asher lounges beside you like he owns the place—because, of course, he does—one arm stretched lazily across the backrest, far too close for comfort. He doesn’t even flinch as the terrified housewife onscreen tiptoes toward the attic door, her flashlight flickering ominously in the dark.

“This is so dumb,” you mutter, trying to distract yourself as your heart rate climbs. “Why is she going up there? Doesn’t she know how horror movies work?”

“Maybe she’s braver than you,” he says, lips curving in that infuriating half-smile.

“Or just stupider,” you shoot back.

“Every brave act is stupid until it works,” he replies smoothly.

You open your mouth to argue, but the screen erupts with a piercing shriek, and your instincts betray you. With a startled yelp, you clutch Asher’s arm, face burying instinctively into his shoulder. His laughter—low, warm, maddening—vibrates through your fingertips.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you grumble without lifting your head.

“I warned you,” he says, amusement dancing in his voice. “You never should’ve let me put on The Haunting of Halford Hill. It’s practically a rite of passage.”

You groan, still pressed against him. But it’s not the movie that scares you most—it’s the fact that, for a moment, being this close to Asher Donovan doesn’t feel like a mistake at all.