Page 13 of Dissonance

Because that wasn’t a goodbye.

That was an invitation.

And I’ve never been particularly good at walking away from those.

Chapter Five

Thea

What the hell am I doing?

I don’t do things like this. I’m not this girl. I’m certainly never this bold.

The thought loops for the entire thirty seconds I stand just outside the ballroom doors, phone in hand, pretending to check messages I haven’t received. Inside, the gala continues without me, clinking glasses and polished smiles and people judging each other in the same breath they exchange pleasantries.

I should go back in. My father will still be where I left him, talking with my brother, shaking hands and introducing his prodigy with gusto, making sure everyone knows he’s the one who organized this entire thing. And yet there’s something about that Scottish stranger that makes me want to act impulsively for once in my life.

Maybe my departing line was too subtle and he didn’t catch it.

My gaze drifts toward the bank of elevators, my room keycard heavy in my purse. He’s coming—I have no logical reason to be this certain—but something about the way he looked at me across the room, steady and assessing, has lodged itself somewhere under my ribs and refuses to let go.

Not that I wasn’t obvious about my intentions.

I keep my chin up, shoulders back, both hands loose around my purse, even as my pulse hammers in my throat and my fingers won’t stop fidgeting with the clasp. I don’t pace; there are too many people for that, too many eyes that could recognize Mr. Calloway’s daughter making a fool of herself in a hotel lobby. But every time the ballroom doors open behind me, my whole body stills, heart lifting, then deflating when it isn’t him.

I don’t even know his name. I have absolutely no business standing out here waiting for a man I’ve just met. And yet, here I am, heels aching, waiting.

“This is insane, Thea,” I mutter to myself. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The answer is: I’m not thinking. Not tonight.

I’m not thinking about schmoozing with potential clients. I’m not thinking about all the executives who look at me and see only my father’s daughter. I’m not thinking about the people who would love half an excuse to whisper about her.

And I’m definitely not thinking about a stranger whose accent curls through his words like smoke.

The air shifts before I see him. A change in the lobby’s quiet rhythm. Heavy footsteps cutting through the ambient soundtrack playing throughout the hotel, deliberate in a way that makes my fingers tighten around my purse. I don’t look at him right away. I give myself a few more seconds to regain my composure by sliding my phone away and drawing a slow breath before turning.

He seems even bigger out here—which is ridiculous, since I was standing right next to him at the bar, but I didn’t let myself look at him properly then. Broad shoulders straining against his white button-down, suit jacket slung over one shoulder, thick forearms bare where he’s pushed his sleeves back. His tie’s gone, the top two buttons undone, and there’s something about him in the softer light, less formal, more immediate, that I have to actively remind myself how to breathe.

For one suspended second, I wonder if I’ve either made the best or worst decision of my life, and I genuinely cannot tell which. But standing here with this man staring down at me like I’m the only thing in the building worth looking at, I’m not going to find out by turning back.

He stops a few feet away, his gaze dragging over my face like he’s picturing what comes next. Heat crawls up the back of my neck as he lingers on my lips. Not crude. Hungry. Like he wants to take his time with me and hasn’t quite decided where to begin.

Silence stretches between us, thick with awareness of how close he’s standing, of the sheer mass of him filling the small space.

My pulse kicks faster. I should say something, anything, and then I hear myself say, “A gentleman would escort a lady to her room.” I aim for casual and probably miss by a mile, gesturing toward the elevators behind me.

Dark eyes linger, giving nothing away. I hate how much that unsettles me.

His lips twitch. “After you.”

Two words. Velvet and gravel at the same time.

He reaches past me, arm brushing mine as he presses the call button, and the golden doors open with a soft ding. Clutching my purse a little tighter, I lift my chin and step inside. My heels feel loud against the marble floor, each step a distant boom in my ears as I walk forward.

The elevator is small—I knew this in theory—but with him in it, it’s something else entirely, the doors sliding shut and hiding the rest of the world away. Just the two of us, three mirrored walls, the quiet mechanical hum above, and him taking up more than his share of the space. He radiates warmth, close enough that I catch his scent properly for the first time. Clean cotton and the faint trace of soap worn thin by a long night, skin and heat beneath it.

“Floor?” he asks.