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“Don’t be too long, okay?”
Thumbing the Cartier diamond bars that adorn my lobes, I scurry to the toilet as ladylike as possible. The earrings are on the heavy side as they run almost to the very top of my ears, and they tug painfully at my flesh with every step. And still, I know I’ll wear them again because they were a present from Grandad on my twenty-first birthday.
I hold my hands under the cold running water as I look in the mirror and the sharp glint of the icy jewels has the ache in my chest cutting through me like a blunt blade.
“It’s okay,” I tell myself with a deep breath, trying to stabilise my emotions. “Not now.” Bracing myself on the vanity, I count my breaths. One. Two. Three. Four…
I have no idea how long it takes me to swallow down the grief that threatens to choke me, but by the time I waltz out of the toilet I feel like I can go back to the concert without falling apart again.
In my hurry to get back to Christopher I pick up the long skirt of my dress. Focusing on the ground my heels are eating up, I run straight into a very rigid body. My hands jamb into a hard wall of muscle and at the same time, a very warm pair of hands grasp my arms.
For a moment I’m completely muddled. My scattered wits have me mute as my heart runs off with my lungs and I am left unable to swallow down the saliva that’s pooling in my mouth from the woodsy scent enveloping me.
I might be going blind too, because when I look up everything is blurry. Eyes, lashes, lips. I can see the tip of his nose though. It makes my embarrassment seep deeper into my bones that feel too heavy, rather than like the usual jelly.
Shit, it takes me forever to catch up with myself and my focus to return. The way his eyes feel like they’re eating me alive make it impossible for me to get my words and thoughts to align with my actions.
Why is he looking at me like that? The question overshadows my logic, and instead of stepping back, it feels like we’re inching closer.
“Hello,” he says, his gaze trailing down my face until his head leans forward, close to mine, and when my eyes follow down to where he’s looking, I fluster.
It takes me a moment to co-ordinate my hands so they release the unbuttoned tux jacket fisted in them.
When I finally drop my hands, I look up at him.
Oh my God. Oh shit…
I might not have thought it, but I’m sure that subconsciously I knew he would be good-looking. But this close…he’s so damn gorgeous with his slopped grin, that I can’t make sense of it.
“Found your feet yet?” he asks with a low chuckle. I’m not sure whether it’s mocking or righteous, but the rumbly depth of his voice travels down my body, making my knees wobble as I press my thighs so tight together that it feels uncomfortable.
I can’t quite think of what it is that makes his voice so different to any other I’ve heard before, but it affects me physically. It has pride, something I never knew a voice could possess.
“Hello,” I manage to croak, as my mind continues debating the make and model of his voice.
My gaze roams up his face far too slowly, my insides heating again as I register the straight slope of his nose, the very tiny freckle at the top of his right cheekbone and the scar that sits above the neatly tapered end of his eyebrow.
I catalogue all those things, even the way his coiffed hair is a little bushy and perfectly messy on top, before I pause on his eyes.
Deep and broody, their green is golden in some parts and mossy in others. They’re a handsome and hypnotising shade of muddy autumn grass that’s still trying to regain some of its vibrancy after drying in the sun.
That thought makes my heart thud, autumn is my favourite season. I like the slight chill and the warm colours, the fireworks and bonfires. But most of all, I love the way the air burns my face just enough to make me feel sparks. And, God, he’s making me feel all the sparks and chills.
Eyes flitting between mine, his hands loosen on my arms enough that disappointment starts to shadow my wonder of him. And when he lets
his hands drop, I almost go with them.
Curling my toes in my shoes is just about enough to tense my legs so that I can stand on my own two feet.
“I-I’m…sorry,” I murmur, taking a step back.
“As am I, Buttercup.” Unlike mine, his voice is steady and strong. It holds its own in our vast surroundings.
Buttercup? His comment leaves me baffled, as without so much as a goodbye, only a faint chuckle, he steps to the side. Taking one last look at me, his gaze roves down my body before he saunters off.
Spinning, I watch him round the hallway back to his box with his hands in his pockets. His tuxedo jacket impeccably gloves his lean torso and his beautifully tailored trousers taper down his long legs. The hems lift slightly with his every step, revealing bright yellow socks that aren’t far off the colour of my dress. And it makes me smile, even when disappointment nags me that I don’t know his name or anything barring the colour of his eyes and the sound of his voice.
Chapter 2
