Page 93 of Lease to Love

That was what I did.

I smiled. I laughed at the right places. Asked polite follow-up questions. Complimented dresses. Accepted introductions. Made people feel interesting. I had been doing some version of it my entire life, but tonight there was something wrong with the machinery. Every smile felt a fraction too deliberate, every laugh like something I had to remember to produce, and the harder I tried to make myself settle into the room, the more aware I became of how badly I wanted to leave it.

Roman tried to help.

He pulled out my chair when we sat. Kept my water and wine within reach. Leaned down every time he spoke to me so I didn’t have to strain over the music. When a man cornered me and spent eleven straight minutes explaining hedge funds to me like I’d been waiting my whole life for that particular TED Talk, Roman appeared at my shoulder with two fingers against my back and smoothly redirected him toward somebody else.

All the things he usually did.

Except tonight there was a new layer underneath every gesture—the possibility that none of this was fake anymore.

And that layer changed everything.

His hand at my back didn't feel like an anchor.

It felt like one more thing I had to keep track of.

I could have cried with relief when dinner was finally served.

I slid into my chair, grateful for the excuse to look down at something besides another stranger’s face, and focused on the plate in front of me as if the neatly arranged food had personally promised to save me. The room was still loud, still crowded, still too bright, but at least I had something to do with my hands.

I refilled my wine glass once.

Then again.

The third time, Roman’s hand closed gently around the stem before I could take a sip.

“Water,” he said.

I looked at him. He looked back at me.

“Roman.”

“Drink some water, Sunshine.”

Normally, that would have helped.

Normally, his prompts and little cues felt like relief. Like he was holding the edge of something I didn’t have enough bandwidth to hold myself. But my nervous system was already stretched so thin it felt like my skin was too small for my body, and suddenly his concern felt like pressure.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“I know you’re not.”

The words landed wrong, and something inside me snapped.

“I don’t need to be managed, Roman.”

His expression shifted.

Not dramatically. Roman didn’t do dramatic unless he was kissing me. But his eyebrows drew together, his jaw tightened, and the hand holding my wineglass went still.

“I’m not managing you.”

“It feels like it.”

“I’m trying to make sure you eat something besides Cabernet.”

“I said I’m fine.”