Page 51 of The Accident

I keep my head up as we walk the length of the ballroom. I pretend to have dignity. I don’t look at Trevor, but I’m aware of every inch of him: the pressure of his hand, the heat radiating off his skin, the way his scent—cedar, whiskey, and something else—clings to me. He saved me after all, and I’m grateful.

When we’re finally outside, under the portico with the cold night air biting through the thin silk of my dress, Trevor lets go of my arm. I expect him to say something cutting, something jarring and even potentially humiliating.

But he just looks at me, his jaw set, his eyes half-shadowed by the overhead lights.

“You’re reckless,” he says, and for the first time tonight, there’s an edge of real admiration in his voice.

“I didn’t mean—” I start, but he shakes his head, already moving toward the valet line.

He turns back. His gaze pins me. “I know.”

And then, before I can process it, he’s at my side again, his hand on my lower back, steering me toward the waiting car, the two of us disappearing into the dark like nothing happened at all.

But I can still feel it: relief that he’s here; the panic that’s dissipating because Trevor materialized out of nowhere to help me; the shock of his touch; the electric thrill that’s half panic, half joy; and the certainty that he’s going to ask for something from me in return.

And for once, I’m not afraid.

In fact, I’m looking forward to it.

18

WAIT, I'M SUPPOSED TO BE HIS MAID?

Kayleigh

Trevor drives like a man who’s already somewhere else.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at me, doesn’t even drum his fingers on the wheel. It’s all perfect, practiced stillness, the kind you only get after years of deciding exactly who you want to be and then never letting anyone see the work. My dress is hiked up mid-thigh from sitting, my ivory thighs trembling a little, despite my best efforts to stay calm. I keep expecting him to say something—anything—about what just happened, or maybe about how I almost flubbed everything in a single, million-dollar bid, but he offers nothing.

Outside, Minneapolis flickers past, a mesh of sodium lights and grey darkness, every street sign a little blue ghost in the window. I watch Trevor’s profile as we cross the bridge over the Mississippi, his jaw locked, the muscle there jumping every so often like he’s chewing on words that never make it out. He keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting palm-down on the gearshift, and every few blocks his thumb taps once, very softly, as if he’s Morse-coding himself instructions. I’m not brave enough to ask what he’s thinking.

When we get to his building, he pulls into the private garage and cuts the engine. There’s a moment, before he kills the headlights, where the whole car is just us—me in the passenger seat, knees pressed together, perfume and sweat fusing in the tight air, and Trevor turned toward the wheel, his face in perfect profile, hands relaxed, eyes fixed on nothing. The engine clicks itself cool. The silence is vast, cathedral-like. I expect him to look at me, to say some final thing that will make sense of everything that’s happened, but he just gets out of the car and shuts his door before coming around to open mine.

“Come on,” he says, extending a hand. His grip is warm and reassuring, even though it takes me a few seconds to orient myself. When I do, my heels echo like gunshots in the empty garage. I have to jog to keep up with him, the thin straps biting into my feet with every step.

We reach the elevator. The lobby is deserted, the floor waxed to a sheen that throws our reflections up at us, like ghosts trapped under glass. Trevor presses the penthouse button and leans against the mirrored wall, arms folded, jaw set. I don’t know what to do with myself, so I stand as still as I can, hands clasped at my waist, like a kid at the principal’s office waiting for the verdict.

The elevator ride takes forever. The numbers tick upward, and with each floor I become more and more aware of the way my dress clings to my hips, the heat radiating off my skin, the fact that my lipstick is probably smudged. I look up and see myself in the mirrored ceiling: blonde hair wild from the night, face flushed, mouth slightly open, eyes wide and uncertain. The reflection catches Trevor behind me, looming over me, his shoulders broad, suit perfect and his arms folded, totally calm.

Damn him. Why is he always so collected when I’m falling apart at the edges?

For a moment, I imagine that this is the last elevator ride of my life, that we’re both being hauled up to some kind of execution, and the part of my brain that’s seen too many movies wonders whether Trevor will even let me out once the doors open. Maybe he’ll just take me apart, floor by floor, and I’ll never get to see the sun again.

But then the doors ding, and we’re there.

He steps out first, no hesitation. I follow, careful not to catch my heel in the gap. The penthouse is silent, except for the gentle hum of the climate control. It smells like cedar and whiskey and a little like the ocean—whatever Trevor uses for aftershave, it makes the air feel electric.

He doesn’t wait for me. He walks straight into the living room, which is a fever dream of luxury: floor-to-ceiling glass throwing the Minneapolis skyline into the room at every angle, deep sofas that moan when you sit, a bar cart loaded with bottles I can’t pronounce, every surface glossy and hard and cold. The lights are low, amber and gold, and they make the entire place look like it’s underwater, slow and warm and just a little bit dangerous.

I hang back by the door, almost afraid to enter.

Trevor stands in the center of the room, staring out at the city, his back to me. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just lets the silence spool out until I start to think maybe I should leave, or at least say something.

Finally, when I can’t take it any more, I walk toward the nearest sofa and reach out to touch the fabric. I’m about to sink down, just to have something under me besides nerves and air, when Trevor’s voice stops me.

“Don’t sit. You’re not a guest here, Kayleigh.”

It’s soft, but the kind of soft that slices straight through your ribs. I freeze, my hand inches above the cushion, heart pounding so hard I’m afraid it’s going to break through my chest.