Page 1 of Crossing Lines

Chapter 1

Nina

Nothing says high fashion quite like duct tape.

I wish I was kidding—half of me is literally held together by the silver strips. The other half? Pure adrenaline.

I glide—okay, more like shuffle—to the ballroom entrance, my dress trailing behind me in a swirl of deep crimson and gold, all dramatic ruffles and excessive embellishments. From the outside, it’s pure maximalist perfection. Inside? I’m a safety-pin-slash-duct-tape trap waiting to spring.

“Thanks again for coming with me tonight, Nina,” Elodie, my best friend, says with a radiant smile. She’s the kind of woman who captivates attention with her height and athletic physique. Her short black hair frames her face, and her striking green eyes are accentuated by heavy bangs that flirt with her lashes. “And for helping me adjustmy dress.”

“As if I’d let you walk into this event in something too short.”

“Definitely avoided disaster.” She laughs and nudges her shoulder into mine. “See? Aren’t you glad you came now?”

“Well, that all depends on how the food is.”

“It’s Quincy’s charity, and out of all the players on the team, he knows good food.”

“If it’s so good,” I say, “then why didn’t Hunter come too and support him?”

When Elodie sprung this charity event on me literally two hours ago after working all day at her pop-up bakery, I thought she was joking. I had a date with my bed, a pint of ice cream, and some doomscrolling. Turns out, she was indeed not joking when she brought her silvery dress over that was too short when paired with her heels. I guess that’s a tall-girl problem and something I’ve never experienced in my life at five-five.

“Oh…well…you see,” Elodie says, glancing at me as if to check my reaction to whatever she’s about to say. “I kind of mentioned to Hunter that I miss spending time with you since I’ve been so busy with the bakery, and you’ve been busy with your move here to Skyrise. So, he thought it’d be sweet for us to go together tonight.”

Honestly, I’d rather be anywhere but here. I’m the kind of girl who thrives in a grungy bar, not rubbing elbows at some high-society gala. But just because I don’t belong here, or that I despise baking, or that I hate working the register at her pop-up bakeries—where I lacka single customer service bone—doesn’t mean I won’t do anything for my best friend. I’d move mountains for her.

“I’d never say no to some more Elodie time,” I say, which is true. Since she started her bakery and eloped with Hunter, I’ve barely seen her.

“Come on, let’s go see what this thing is all about and what a few thousand dollars a plate will get you.”

I choke at that figure as she leads the way into a room that literally sparkles, like it’s trying to outshine everyone in it. Chandeliers glitter overhead, casting a soft glow over the sea of designer gowns and bespoke tuxedos.

I shuffle (waddle?) after her, taking shallow breaths and reminding myself to not raise my arms or else my dress might just unravel.

“What now?” I ask, grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing server, more for distraction than thirst. It’s only my second charity event, and the luxury around me feels just as overwhelming as the first time. I still can’t shake the discomfort of not quite belonging.

“We could always mingle,” she suggests, grinning at the look I must be giving her. “Or we can skip the small talk and head straight to the table?”

“Mingle? Babe, I’m not here for the forced conversations.”

“Table it is.” Elodie laughs and navigates a path through the crowd to a table that seems to be on the other side of the room. The weight of countless gazes sweeps over me, scrutinizing and assessing. My skin crawls at the attention, at the judgment.

They don’t have to say anything—I can hear the thoughts loud and clear: She doesn’t belong here.

I mean, they’re not wrong. I’ve never belonged anywhere my entire life. The small town Elodie and I grew up in wasn’t friendly to the girl who lived in a trailer with a mom like mine and who wore ill-fitting clothes because we were poor.

Why the hell didn’t I wear something that was more polished? More finished? Of course, I might be recognized here after the jacket featuring pop superstar and Elodie’s secret twin, Stella Wilde, and the NFL team the Sentinels went viral.

My stomach twists, self-doubt clawing its way up my throat. I force my chin up, scanning the room—fake it till you make it, right? But the act crumbles as I catch people staring, gazes lingering on my dress. Can they see the pins? The tape? Every flaw that I’ve tried so hard to hide now feels exposed under the chandeliers.

Then I see him—Evren Kaya.

He strides across the room like he owns it, like he’s a king, exuding an energy that makes people part in his wake. Every inch of him radiates an air of arrogance, from the chiseled angles of his strong jawline to the confident tilt of his nose to his perfectly styled black hair. His tuxedo fits him like a second skin and probably costs more money than I’ve ever seen in my life.

Too bad he’s the entitled team owner for the Sentinels, Hunter’s team owner to be exact, and almost twenty years older than me. He’ssonot my type. Somuch so that I can’t stop thinking about him after meeting him some months ago. Why the hell, out of all the people in the world, am I attracted tohim? It’s a question I ask myself late at night, when he stars in most of my fantasies.

Whereas I’m like a fish out of water in this place, he fits right in. He’s in his element, with his bodyguard trailing behind him and everyone in front of him begging for a moment of his time.

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