Page 14 of Keller

"Thank you."

My voice sounds normal, I look normal. No one can tell my pulse is racing or that I can't stop thinking about a stranger's mouth on my neck.

This isn't sustainable.

Nate launches back into fundraising mode while Frank asks another question. I nod at the right moment, but I'm not really listening. I think I might crawl out of my skin if I have to sit here for another second.

My thighs press together. I take another sip of champagne, hoping the cold will help.

"Excuse me," I say, cutting into Nate's sentence. "I've got to visit the ladies' room."

Nate pauses mid-pitch but recovers quickly. "Of course. We'll catch up in a minute."

Margaret waves me off with a warm smile. "Take your time, dear."

I move before anyone can say anything else. The crowd parts as I weave through, my heels clicking against the polished floor. The noise of the gala swells around me, voices layering over violin strings and clinking glasses.

I don't look at Keller again. If I do, I'll lose whatever composure I have left.

The hallway leading to the restrooms is quieter, dimmer. I push through the door and let it swing shut behind me.

Silence.

I lean against the counter and close my eyes.

My chest rises and falls too fast. My hands grip the marble edge. The cool surface grounds me, but barely.

I open my eyes and meet my reflection. My lipstick is smudged and my hair is slightly mussed. I laugh out loud at how I must have looked to Margaret and Frank. There goes my assumption that I looked normal.

I open my clutch to see if I can find something to write on. There's a compact, some lipstick, keys, and no pen.

Of course not.

I glance around the counter. Nothing. No pens, no paper, nothing useful in this pristine, useless bathroom.

A matchbook sits near the sink. Someone must have left it. The cover says "Napoleon House" in gold foil lettering. I pick it up, flip it open, and decide to write my number inside it like a cheesy noir movie.

I grab my lipstick, uncap it, and stare at the red tip.

This is insane. Maybe. But I'm doing it anyway.

I write my name on the inside cover. Quinn, adding my number below it. The lipstick smears slightly, but the digits are clear enough. I snap the matchbook closed and drop it back into my clutch.

I take the opportunity to actually use the restroom when a group of three ladies walks in. Once I'm finished, I wash my hands and check my reflection one more time, smoothing my hair before heading for the door.

The ballroom noise hits me first. Laughter, music, the clink of silverware on china. I step back into the flow of guests and let the crowd carry me forward.

I don't search for him. That would be obvious. Instead, I move through the space naturally, pausing to nod at someone Ihalf recognize, accepting a fresh champagne flute from a passing server.

My pulse hammers in my throat, but my face stays calm. I scan the room for the area where he was standing before I left. I clock a couple near the windows and a group by the dessert table.

And then I see him.

Keller stands near the edge of the ballroom, still talking to the same man from before. His glass is nearly empty, and he tilts his head back, showing off that immaculate jawline as he laughs at something the other person said. My mouth waters.

I angle my path toward them. Not direct. Just close enough.

I pass him on his left, and my hand brushes his as I move. The matchbook transfers from my palm to his in one smooth motion.