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Ever say something you regret? Like regret so hard you get the word REGRET tattooed on your arm? Same. I accidentally told my stepbrother I was in love with him when we were fourteen. In my defense, strong cough syrup was involved, but to my great regret he hasn’t missed a chance to show me how disgusting I am ever since. He damn near ruined my life. But I’m not a kid anymore, and the summer internship I scored at the best investment banking firm in San Francisco is my ticket to a perfect life. Everything is going to plan until he shows up.

I may be struggling as an artist in New York, but I'm a great doorman. Is it the easiest job in the city? Probably. And it gives my mind all the time it needs to wander. Sometimes to my current project or muse, but more often to the one who got away. I was the one he used to reach for in the middle of the night when the nightmares came. My adopted brother, once not much more than a stranger, became my closest friend during one of the most difficult times of his life.

If you’re looking for a classic case of opposites attract—look no further. There’s me: Pretty. Flamboyant. Extra. Some even say ridiculous. I’m a tour dancer for the biggest pop star in the world with an exploding social media platform and a constant need for attention. I’ve got photographers banging down my door to take my picture, hot men blowing up my DMs to collaborate, and more thirsty fans to please every day. And then there’s Asher: Quiet. Reserved. Shy. Repressed. He’s the hot tattoo artist who pierced my septum. What he sees in me is an escape from his miserable relationship.

I'm stuck in an uptown lobby while my dreams of making it as a model in New York hang by a single thread. Meanwhile, Olivier Arnaud lives his best life as a useless socialite, flaunting his wealth, his looks, and his privilege. His gaze taunts, and his nightly, condescending smirks burrow deep beneath my skin where I simmer with bitterness and hate. The day he asks me to deliver his mail directly to his twelfth-floor penthouse, he makes it personal, and the thread snaps—violently. With my hand around his neck, I feel alive for the first time in months.

Spring training is only a month away, and I’m supposed to be on vacation. The last place I want to be is snowed in with my arrogant teammate and the complete stranger he’s crushing on. Vince Rossi is everything I hate. Too good looking, too talented, and totally unwilling to give me a pass for making one mistake. He treats me like every other cocky jock did growing up. And the stranger, Elio Basso, is the former porn star who owns the cabin we’re stuck in who looks at Vince like he hung the damn moon.

Gideon York is one of the most famous queer men in the world, but since his very public sex scandal, he’s on the verge of being permanently cancelled. Up for three Grammys this year, he needs to get through his six-week European tour without further incident or bad press. That’s where I come in. Call me his security detail, bodyguard, babysitter, or handler—I’ve been hired to keep him within my line of sight and out of trouble until the award ceremony. Should be a cakewalk.

I am not a famous person, but I have been called a king maker. I own the most important talent agency in the world. Music is my life, and no one knows the industry better than I do. But I’m also a Townsend and the Townsends made their money off of the city of Los Angeles itself, which is why I’ve also inherited the ownership of a Major League Baseball team—The L.A. Flames.

My first love died in her sleep, and I ask forgiveness every day from a God I struggle to believe in. I write poems in a basement, keep my failures and secrets to myself, and live a life that feels like a lie. A life I owe to a man I barely know. Gibson Hayes is married, wealthy, powerful, and the man who gave me my job when I came to New York. He's the most generous of billionaires and the most mysterious of men.

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