“No,” I corrected, my irritation spiking. “Youwere about to go meet some friends.” I ducked down, determined to liberate myself by force if I had to.
As I stepped away from him, there was arrrip.A sharp tear cut through the noise of the party, and suddenly, cool night air hit my back.
I turned. The lace back of my shirt was still caught on Dylan’s sleeve, tangled in the cuff link of his French-cut shirt.
On instinct, I crossed my arms over my chest as I realized the only thing keeping my shirt from falling straight off was the neckline, clinging precariously across my collarbone.
Dylan was dumbstruck. “Uh—” he stammered, then abruptly raised his hand and waved at no one in particular in the crowd.
Ohmygod. I’m going to kill him.
“I’ll take it from here.” Beau stepped in, already sliding off his sports coat and draping it over my shoulders in one impossibly smooth motion. Like he did this all the time. Like he walked around waiting for women in need of emergency coverage.
“Come on,” he instructed, and there was a smooth certainty to his energy that steadied me. Dylan must have felt it, too, because he took a step back.
Then he gave a loose “Uh, yeah, sure,” as if he had a say init.
Beau was already leading me away, his hand light at my back, guiding me toward the house. And God help me, it was hot—the way he handled the moment. I clung to the lapels of the jacket, painfully aware that it was the one thing keeping me from flashing my bra in the middle of a Harlan Nichols party.
The crowd was so rowdy, they might not have noticed. ButIwould have. And it would be humiliating enough that I’d have no choice but to vanish, assume a new identity, and start fresh in a quiet town where no one knew my shame. Maybe open a bakery.
I hate baking.
Beau leaned in to make sure I heard him. “Head for that staircase. See it?”
I nodded. We were both facing forward, but when he bent down to point at the staircase, his cheek brushed mine. The faint graze of his skin sent shivers down my back.
Pulse racing, I allowed myself to indulge in the weight of Beau’s jacket on my shoulders, the lingering heat in the fabric, the scent of him—clean, masculine, somehow familiar.
Focusing on the jacket helped keep me calm as we skirted the crowd and climbed the staircase, ducking into a bedroom off the second-floor landing. But when Beau closed the door to the bedroom, he turned, his gaze sweeping over me—not intrusive, not leering. Just taking stock. A quiet, measured once-over, like he was making sure I was in one piece.
I wasn’t. To my horror, I was completely turned on.
Now? My body is pickingnowto swoon?
And then—because apparently, things weren’t bad enough—he started unbuttoning his shirt. And a full-blown riot erupted in my brain.
The words flew out of my mouth before I could stop them. “I can’t have sex with you!”
Beau stilled, his brows knitted together slightly. “What?”
Silence. Existential-threat-level silence.
I wanted to rewind time. Take those words, stuff them back in my mouth, and pretend none of this had ever happened.
But he was already shaking his head, the confusion softening into something maddeningly close to amusement. “Este.” He unhooked the last button, sliding the shirt off his shoulders. “I’m giving you my shirt.” He pointed to his white undershirt and then held out the button-down. “I have two.”
He’s saving the day. The full charm offensive. Fuck.
I took it with shaky hands, my entire body weak with embarrassment. “Right. Of course.”
While my thoughts were in the gutter, he was on some kind of gentlemanly rescue mission.
Cool. Great. No problem. I’ll just fling myself out the nearest window now.
“There’s a bathroom,” he said, nodding toward the en suite.
“Okay,” I said in a too-small voice, then all but fled, shutting the door of the bathroom behind me and leaning against it like some wild-eyed serial killer was on the other side. I groaned into my hands.
