He’s still in his dress shirt, open at the collar, the fabric pulled tight across his chest. The faint line of muscle at his throat catches my eye before I can stop looking. His shoulders stretch the fabric when he moves, and the hint of stubble along his jaw makes him look less polished than usual.
I tell myself to focus on something else, but my thoughts won’t listen. I used to know that body better than my own: every mark, every reaction, every quiet breath that came right before he lost control. I can’t see all of it now, but my memory fills in the rest in traitorous detail.
He glances up, catching me before I can hide it. The look he gives me isn’t smug; it’s quiet, knowing. It pulls heat up the backof my neck, and I pretend to check on Waffles just to break the stare.
“Find what you need?” he asks.
“Trying to,” I say, even though the words come out unevenly.
His eyes drop once more, lingering just long enough to make me aware of every inch of space between us.
I grab the first dress I can reach from my bag and turn away, needing the distance more than the fabric.
Behind me, the mattress creaks as he shifts his weight, and my pulse trips over itself trying to keep up.
That pulls my attention up. “You think this feels the same as it used to?”
He leans back slightly, bracing his hands behind him on the mattress. “It doesn’t. That’s the point.”
I find the dress and keep my focus on it, even though my pulse has started to pick up again. “Then stop acting like it does.”
His voice is even when he answers. “I’m not the one stuck in the past.”
I almost flinch. “You don’t get to throw that at me,” I say quietly. “Not after how it ended.”
“I’m not throwing anything,” he says. “I’m stating a fact.”
“Then here’s another,” I say. “I’ll sleep on my side, and you stay on yours.”
“Fine.”
He doesn’t move, just watches as I step toward the bathroom again. The weight of his gaze follows me until the door closes. I can still feel it when I lean against the counter, breath catching as I reach for the zipper.
Five minutes later, I walk back out. His jacket is on, his tie knotted but loose. He looks at me once, quick and unreadable, before standing.
“You ready?” he asks.
“Almost.” I grab my clutch, steady my voice. “Try to smile once tonight. It won’t kill you.”
“Depends on who’s watching.”
His answer shouldn’t make my stomach turn over, but it does.
Rowan steps closer, straightens the strap on my shoulder, and studies me for a beat too long. The contact is nothing, just a brush of fingers, but the awareness in it leaves the air between us stretched thin.
“Let’s go,” he says finally.
I nod and follow him out of the suite, the sound of his footsteps matching mine as we head toward the next performance.
Chapter Seventeen
Tessa
My heels sound louder than they should. Or maybe it’s just that Rowan’s walking too close.
He hasn’t said a word since the elevator.
I haven’t either.
