Page 107
Her gaze softens, and for a second, the world shrinks down to only us. My wrecked mouth, her flushed cheeks, that damn dress.
“We should go,” I say, but I can’t seem to take my eyes off her as she brushes the smears of lipstick from my face.
She eventually moves past me toward the car, the emerald fabric shimmering as she walks. I follow, transfixed by the gentle sway of her hips, the confidence in her stride.
“You look damn good yourself, Sinclair,” she says over her shoulder, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “Though your tie situation is a disaster.”
I glance down at the loose fabric hanging around my neck. “Not my strong suit.”
Her laugh is melodic as she turns to face me. “Come here.”
I step closer, and her nimble fingers work the tie with practiced ease. “There,” she says, smoothing the fabric against my chest. “Perfect.”
I catch her hand before she can pull away, pressing it flat against my heart. “Thank you.”
Her eyes flick to where our hands rest, then back to mine. “You don’t have to thank me.” A beat passes. Her gaze holds mine. Then she adds with a crooked smile, “Also, I couldn’t let you go out there looking like a sad magician. You’re welcome.”
I huff out a laugh, because of course she’d do something gentle and then say something ridiculous.
That’s the thing with her. Every tossed out joke, every offhand kindness, every glance that lingers a little too long, it’s all dragging me in further. She’s in my bloodstream now, stirring things up, waking pieces of me I forgot I had. Parts I buried just to get by. And now they’re lit up and burning for her.
I don’t know what this is yet, but it’s already dismantling everything I thought I knew about wanting someone.
thirty-two
. . .
Whitley
There’s glitter on my wrist.
I think it came from the woman who bumped into me earlier. She was shimmering like a disco ball, but I don’t mind. It feels oddly perfect.
The room is alive with polite chatter and the clink of glasses. I’m stupidly, wildly excited. My cheeks hurt from smiling, and my heels haven’t even started pinching my feet yet, which feels like some kind of omen in itself.
Beau sits next to me, annoyingly good-looking. His knee brushes mine, checking in without making a thing of it.
“You keep bouncing your leg,” he says under his breath.
“Do not expose me,” I whisper back, grinning. “I’m the picture of elegance and composure.”
“Mm. Right.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s this balloon of happiness swelling in my chest that won’t stop. It’s not just the award. It’s what it stands for. The studio, the workshops, the kids who came in quiet and left covered in paint. The parents who cried in the corner while their child made a mess on purpose for the first time in months. The survivors who found something to say without needing words.
I glance across the table, and Violet catches my eye immediately. She’s sitting beside Rowan, one hand wrapped around her wine glass and the other resting on his arm. The second our eyes meet, she mouths, I’m so proud of you.
My throat tightens.
Next to her is Harper, and then there’s my mom. She’s dabbing at her eyes with a napkin while trying very hard to pretend she isn’t crying.
I shake my head and smile. This is the part no one talks about.
The awards. The recognition. The pretty dresses and fancy rooms. They’re nice. But this? Looking around and seeing the people who saw every messy, exhausting, terrifying step it took to get here? This is the part that matters.
I just wish Dad was here.
Beau shifts beside me, just a small adjustment, but it draws my attention. And that’s when I notice his phone lighting up on his lap. Again. It’s the third call in the last fifteen minutes.
