Mike catches it and grabs my hand, grinning. “Come on, let’s get one for the photo board.”
I yank back. “Us? Yeah, I’m sure they’re dying to capture two nobodies.”
But he’s not listening as he pulls me toward the commotion of the photo area.
“We’re up next,” he crows.
The cameras keep flashing, and before I can brace myself, his arm’s around my waist. He dips me—low, way too low—my hair practically mopping the floor.
This dress was made for standing still, not for whatever derangedDancing with the Starsstunt he’s attempting. I flail, caught between laughter and a full-blown scream.
“Mike!” I yelp just as he lands a sloppy, wet kiss on my lips.
I shove at his chest as I try to haul us both upright. But I misjudge it—he’s way drunker than I realized, his balance shot to hell. My push sends him reeling, and I’m caught up in his flailing arms, our feet tangling like we’re in some slapstick nightmare. We’re teetering, the red carpet slick under my heels, and then—crash—we slam into the little high-top table at the edge of the photo area. It’s littered with the night’s leftovers:half-drunk champagne flutes, smudged martini glasses, a graveyard of everyone else’s bad decisions.
The whole thing tips, and the mess comes raining down—sticky liquid splashing everywhere, glass shattering across the carpet.
The cold hits me first, champagne soaking into my dress as I gasp, arms pinwheeling for balance. The cameras keep flashing, popping like strobe lights, catching every second of this disaster in high-def.
“Oh, fuck me!” I gasp, staring down. My nude-toned gown is now a wet, clingy disaster, practically sheer.
“You dick,” I hiss at Mike, glaring daggers at him.
He just stands there, blinking at me, stunned.
“Shit,” he mumbles, wincing as he grabs a napkin from the mess around us. “Sorry, Daisy—” He leans in, awkwardly dabbing at my chest.
“Getoff,” I grumble, swatting him away and snagging the napkin for myself. My hands are shaking as I scrub at the wet patch, but it’s pointless. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, I might as well be naked now.”
“I mean . . . if you’re offering.” Mike grins.
I glare at him, genuinely considering murder.
“Ah don’t be like that, I really am sorry, Daisy.”
I swipe at my dress, but the napkin’s already disintegrating in my hands.
Mike’s expression shifts. His smirk vanishes like it was never there, his eyes flicking past me—widening, sharpening.
“You good, mate?” he says, tilting his chin at someone over my shoulder.
I turn, and there he is.
Edward.
CHAPTER 40
Daisy
“Edward,” I stutter, theair knocked out of me.
He doesn’t move.
He just stands there—still, immovable. Six foot three and carved out of something colder than stone.
His tuxedo hangs effortlessly off his frame, accentuating the broad sweep of his shoulders with the polished ease of a Hollywood star gracing the red carpet.
How handsome he looks sends a sharp pang of sadness through my chest.
