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“The fact that you stay so positive about life and you’re resilient enough to handle anything thrown at you after the circumstances of your birth and your chronic illness?” I shake my head. “That alone is remarkable, Elle. But to live life like a ghost to your own parents and still turn into someone who can be so kind, so cheerful, and so gentle, that’s nearly impossible. A rarity. And rare things are treasured for a reason. Once they’re gone, you might never see such treasures again in your lifetime.”
She finally looks at me again—startled, almost confused. There’s a flush to her cheeks, but it’s hardly flirtatious. Now she just seems lost.
“The only people who’ve ever tried to protect me are my grandmother and Lena,” she whispers. “And lately—you.”
Goddamn.
She keeps rendering me speechless.
This time, I want to deflect, but I can’t.
I can’t when I noticed her from the second she sat next to me on the plane.
I noticed her brightness. I noticed her paleness. I noticed how bravely she tried to hide the pain she was in.
I noticed how even when I was at my most off putting, she still smiled at me like nothing could ever dim her.
I noticed how restlessly she slept, with pain making cruel lines on her delicate face.
I noticed how shaky she was standing up.
I was already watching her even before she started passing out.
That was how I reached her to catch her so quickly, before she could hit the floor.
I just didn’t want to admit it—and I refused to face it until now.
From the moment I met Elle Lark, I’ve been trying to protect her like she’s the most fragile thing I’ve ever seen.
It’s more than just general courtesy toward a stranger. More than simply doing what’s right.
I think that light inside Elle is stronger than I’ll ever be.
Every time she’s near me, I can’t rip my eyes off her.
And it’s like she knows.
She looks past me toward the bar, giving me an escape as she smiles.
“Don’t look now,” she says teasingly, “but we’re being watched.”
I don’t know if that’s good news, even if the entire point of being here is to be seen. Still, I try not to be obvious about glancing over my shoulder, just to see what tabloid jackoff is ogling us with zero discretion.
Only to come two seconds short of scrambling under the table to hide.
“Shit,” I snap.
That’s Marissa Sullivan sitting at the bar.
It’s easy to recognize her. At one point she was a model, and she used her looks as the face of her publishing brand to attract people in a rather business-savvy, Instagrammable move.
Dark hair, pale skin, and a refined face with a catlike—and catty—look. She’s overdressed for the lounge in a sparkling deep-red floor-length evening dress.
She’s nursing a highball and staring over her shoulder at us.
I sink down in my seat, trying to get my head below the level of the seat back, and search for a menu to hide behind—but the damn waiter already took them.
Damn. Shit. Fuck.
