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After not seeing her for the past several weeks, I’m anxious to be in the same room as her again.
I hated leaving Belmont so soon in the first place, especially after Esme’s panic attack before the medal ceremony. Anderson asked if I wanted to stay and heal, but when he told me he’d reached out to one of his contacts in the art world and arranged an exhibit featuring his photography, I knew I needed to be here for him.
And not as his chief protection officer, although that certainly played a huge part in my decision.
I wanted to be here as a friend, especially after he confessed he’d secretly talked with a reporter from a magazine here in New York about his MS diagnosis and the article would be published this week.
As I look around the upscale yet intimate gallery, dozens of people remarking at what an incredible eye Anderson has for finding beauty in the ordinary, I can’t help but marvel at how different he seems from a few months ago when he was at the lowest he’d ever been. I can only hope he’s made peace with his diagnosis and realized it’s not the end of the world, like he once thought it was.
I’m about to head toward the back office to check on my guy manning the cameras when I sense a shift in the energy. The hairs on my nape prick up as electricity passes through the room.
I turn around, warmth filling me when my eyes fall on Esme in a form-fitting black dress that shows off her incredible curves, the hem ending at her mid-thigh. A pair of knee-high black boots make her already long legs look like they extend for miles. Couple that with the dark shadowing along her eyes and the deep red lipstick she wears, I have to fight the urge to rush to her and crush my lips to her.
As if sensing my stare, the second she shrugs off her wool coat and hands it to the woman at the front desk, her gaze finds mine, mouth curling into a flirtatious smirk.
I try not to read into it, but I can practically feel the weight lifting off her. Like she can breathe again.
I feel like I can finally breathe again, too.
She saunters toward me, her golden blonde waves brushing against her shoulders with every sway of her hips.
“Captain Lawson,” she greets me in a throaty voice that borders on being sultry.
A few weeks ago, there would have been animosity and perhaps resentment when she addressed me as such. Not anymore.
I thought I was doing the right thing by remaining cold and aloof. Not just because Anderson asked me to keep my distance, but because I thought it was for the best.
She’s with Tristan. I have an obligation to Rory and AJ.
That shifted when I saw Charles Thacker point a gun at Esme.
I’ve seen a lot of shit during my military service. I can say without a doubt that I’ve never been as scared as I was in the fraction of a second when he pressed his finger to the trigger and fired. I will never forget that moment for the rest of my life.
“Your Highness.” I bow, but keep my eyes trained on her. It’s impossible to lower my gaze when she looks as stunning as she does right now.
Then again, I’m just as drawn to her when she wears an oversized t-shirt, pajama pants, hair piled on her head, face devoid of makeup.
“H-How have you been?” My voice shakes slightly, evidencing the nervous energy dancing in my stomach as her addictive scent wraps around me. I feel like a teenager talking to a girl for the first time.
“Hanging in there, all things considered.” She smiles, but unlike mere seconds ago, this one feels forced. As if she’s hiding something from me.
“Any more incidents?” I ask in a low voice as I lean toward her, her body wash becoming even stronger. Making me want to bury my nose in her hair and breathe her in.
“I’ve been fine.” She straightens her spine, lifting her head. But she doesn’t look directly at me.
I part my lips to press the issue, but before I can, she turns from me.
“This is incredible,” she exhales, sweeping her gaze around the refurbished warehouse that’s now home to the art gallery.
“Your brother is rather talented.”
“Yes, he is.”
A server wearing a white tuxedo shirt and black pants walks through the gallery, a silver tray with flutes of bubbling champagne perched in one hand.
Esme grabs two glasses, the light from the gallery’s overhead fixtures cascading across her face as she extends one toward me.
“I’m on duty,” I remind her.
