Every time it happens, my spine stiffens. And every time, he doesn’t react, which somehow makes it worse.
He’s focused on the speaker on stage while I burn alive beside him, pretending to listen. His thick arm isrelaxed on the back of his chair, the other resting on the table, fingers inches from mine.
Questions have been burning through my mind for the past twenty minutes. Why am I here? Why was it so important I sit next to him?
I was hoping for some kind of explanation, some mention of that night at the club, the photos going viral. But there’s none of it.
I can’t take it anymore.
I push my chair back quietly, offering a soft excuse to no one in particular. “I’m just gonna get some air.”
No one protests. People are too focused on the stage. Jace gives me a distracted smile. Melody’s deep in conversation.
But Dominic turns his head and his eyes follow my hand as I take my glass from the table.
I slip through the tables and the glass double doors leading out to the balcony—a sprawling stretch of stone and ivy overlooking the gardens below. The doors close behind me, muting the sounds of the event.
Finally, I breathe.
The air outside is cooler, but not cold. Still, I wrap my arms around myself, half from the breeze, half from the fact that I’m unraveling like a cheap thread.
I lean on the railing and try to slow my heart. I should be enjoying this. I should be proud. Somehow, I made it here—to this ridiculous marble palace full of money and cameras. But I still don’t understand why I’m here.
The door opens behind me, sound spilling from inside before being muffled again as it clicks shut.
I don’t even need to turn. The temperature changes first, then my skin prickles with that same awareness he always causes whenever he looks at me.
“You don’t have to play bodyguard. I wasn’t planning to steal any silverware,” I say without looking at him.
I wait for his reply, but it never comes. Starting to think no one’s actually behind me, I turn, glass in hand.
He’s standing by the doorway, watching me. The light from inside slides over his face, cutting sharp angles.
“You planning to glare at me from over there?” I ask.
One corner of his mouth twitches as he steps closer. He closes the distance, slow and steady, until the air between us thickens. The scent of him wraps around me again, and he’s still not saying anything. Why isn’t he saying anything?
I take another sip just to do something with my hands. The vodka burns on the way down as I look up at him, tilting my head. He looks different from that night at the club. The amusement is gone from his eyes, but the heat isn’t.
Without warning, he reaches for my glass. Our fingers brush, and heat shoots straight through my arm.
He brings it to his mouth, eyes locked on mine, and drinks from the exact spot my lipstick smudged. My breaths become shallow as I watch him behind the rim of the glass—the act so strangely intimate it sends a spark low in my belly.
He lowers the glass, thumb tracing the rim where my mouth was. “I hate vodka,” he murmurs as if to himself.
“You’re welcome to get your own drink if you’re unhappy with mine,” I say, raising a brow.
He places the vodka back in my hand, leaning in with the faintest curl of a smile. I arch my neck farther, suddenly feeling small beside his towering frame.
“Sharp tongue,” he says quietly. “Careful where you point it.”
My heart is beating so fast I’m worried he might hear it. But I square my shoulders and fight to keep eye contact. “If this is your idea of small talk, it’s terrible.”
“I’m not into small talk.”
“And what are you into, Captain?” I manage through the thrill coursing through me.
His answer doesn’t come right away. His eyes search my face like he’s deciding how much to confess. “Jessica,” he drawls—my name slow as a warning.
