"If Miley ever wants to visit a set," he said, his voice dropping to something meant just for me, "she should reach out. Or you could bring her yourself. I’d love to see you again, Anna."
I was aware of several things at once. That Christopher Vale had just said he wanted to see me again. That Jace, standing six inches to my right, had heard every syllable. And that the temperature on my right side had dropped by about ten degrees.
"Good to see you out, old friend. Don’t be a stranger." Christopher laughed, and left.
Jace reached over and took the napkin from my hand. He held it up, then turned it over. "His penmanship hasn’t improved," he said. "That signature is barely legible. The S could be a G. The V is indistinguishable from a U. And the star looks like he sneezed on the paper."
Christopher laughed from halfway across the room, where he’d paused to talk to a producer but was clearly still listening. He raised his glass at Jace.
Jace shook his head, folded the napkin neatly, and handed it back to me.
"We should return to our table," he said dryly. "The event will begin shortly, and I have no interest in being caught in another conversation with some celebrity you’re a fan of."
"Hey, it wasn’t like that. I just…" I tried to explain, but his expression shut the attempt down before I could finish.
The rest of the evening moved around us. Courses of food arriving and disappearing. Conversations at our table that Jace navigated with the minimum number of words required to qualify as social participation. A producer’s wife asked me how long we’d been together. I said we weren’t. Jace said nothing.
Before the award ceremony began, a charity event was announced—a charity auction, with proceeds going to local children’s hospitals. The host invited industry leaders to say a few words. Jace’s name was called.
He stiffened. For a second, anxiety flashed in his eyes. Then he stood. Buttoned his jacket. And glanced at me before he walked to the stage. Brief. I watched him stand on the podium.
His voice carried the accent that commanded a room without trying. He talked about responsibility. About children who needed support. About showing up even when it’s difficult,especiallywhen it’s difficult.
He was finishing his last sentence when suddenly the lights went out.
The venue dropped into complete darkness.
My heart rate spiked.
The crowd murmured. Someone laughed nervously. The emergency lighting didn’t come on. Someone in the hotel’s maintenance crew was about to have the worst night of their career.
I couldn’t see the stage. Couldn’t see Jace. But I knew, with the certainty of someone who had held his face in a dark elevator while he fought for air, exactly what was happening to him right now.
I grabbed my phone, turned on the flashlight, and moved. People were milling, confused, blocking every path. I pushed through them, sidestepped a waiter, and fought my way to the stage.
I found him behind the podium. He was sitting under it, eyes shut, hands gripping his knees tightly, his suit trousers creasing under the pressure.
"Jace." I took his hand cautiously. "I’m here."
His eyes opened. Gray and wild and somewhere far away.
His hand was ice-cold through the leather. Shaking.
Around us, venue staff were mobilizing, flashlights cutting the dark, voices calling instructions. A power surge had taken out the main grid. Rare but possible in a building this old. They were resetting the backup.
I guided him off the stage, through the side exit I’d clocked when we first arrived. The night opened up around us. Warm Miami air, salt on the breeze, and a sky full of stars bright enough to see by.
I kept holding his hand because he hadn’t let go and I wasn’t going to be the one who did.
We stopped against the hotel wall. Valet lights casting long shadows. Bass from inside, a distant pulse through the brick. His breathing was evening out. His color was coming back.
I looked at him. He was staring right at me. The award show was still happening inside, muffled and far away, and out here it was just us, the night, and the space between us that kept getting smaller.
"You're driving me mad," he said. His back was against the brick, collar loose, hair fallen from its usual precision. His eyes on mine, close, closer than the fitting room, and his breath was warm on my face and I could feel every nerve in my body paying attention to the way he was looking at my mouth.
My lips parted. His gaze dropped to them. And then his hand tightened around mine and he closed the distance, and his mouth was on mine, warm and careful and shaking, and the whole world went quiet.
CHAPTER 13
