“I’m fine.” I wave one hand, averting my eyes.
Be angry, Evan. Get mad and stay mad.
If I allow myself to accept compassion from this man, I’ll unravel.
Alaric leans against the wall beside me, mirroring my position, close enough that the sleeve of his jacket brushes against my bare arm.
“You’re not,” he murmurs. “Nor would I expect you to be, given what I just witnessed. Did Mia Young actually slap Luca?”
I close my eyes, shame trickling through my limbs like a drizzle of rain in early spring.
If Alaric saw that, other people did, too.
Shit. Forget my shame. There’s a very real chance my best friend could be in trouble because of me.
The sensation of his pinky brushing my hand startles me. His skin is warm. Soft. I blink my eyes open, but I don’t dare look down at the source.
“I’m sorry for whatever he said or did,” Alaric says as he brushes the tips of his fingers over my wrist. “Unfortunately, I know my son well enough to assume he deserved whatever happened in there.”
It’s a small mercy, I suppose, that he correctly assumes his son is an ass. It makes the whole lusting after my ex-boyfriend’s dad situation a little less problematic. He’s clearly the better of the two Steele men. It’s a shame I didn’t meet him first.
“Evangeline…”
Keeping my focus fixed on the floor, I shake my head.
I don’t want to talk. I don’t deserve his compassion or care. This man has the power to break me, and for the sake of both our careers, I can’t sink any deeper into whatever this is between us.
Any deeper, and I don’t think I could pull myself out.
My stomach swooshes as the elevator ascends. I have no idea how I scored a room near the top of this hotel, but I’m certainly not complaining about the accommodations.
Inhaling slowly, I look at the display above the buttons, giving myself something to focus on. I gnaw on my bottom lip as the numbers rise. Though despite my discipline, my attention drifts, and when it lands on the mirrored elevator doors and I take in our reflection, my breath catches.
Alaric, hair slicked back and in his all-black ensemble, and me in my bold, formfitting red dress.
There’s no denying it: We look good together.
In another life… In another place…
My heart aches with an intensity that tempts me to rub at my sternum. I quell the urge quickly, committing myself to not dwelling on the truth that this man can never be mine.
But then his fingers glide lower and skirt over my knuckles. He pauses, the warmth of his touch soaking into me as he gives me a chance to pull away.
When I don’t, he forges on.
With the gentlest touch, he urges my fist to unfurl. Then he slips his hand into mine.
My lungs seize in my chest.
Despite how distorted we look, he meets my gaze in our reflection. “Please, Evangeline. Talk to me.”
Coming to my senses, I pull my hand back. “I can’t talk to you,” I tell him. “I can’t even look at you.”
He flinches like I’ve struck him.
I could never.
Hell, I couldn’t even find it in me to slap his son.
