She’s not at Grant’s side. She’s hovering by a blackjack table she clearly has no interest in: not a single chip in front of her, not a glance at her cards.
She’s staring at Grant with a look I can’t quite name.
Not longing. Not jealousy.
It’s… almost worship.
There’s a dreamy daze in her eyes, like she’s watching the life she was supposed to have unfolding without her—like a child staring through a shop window at a toy she was promised and never received.
It unsettles me.
Because suddenly I’m not sure this is just some toxic, clingy childhood friendship. There’s something else here. Something deeper. Possessive.
Even still, I can’t resist. Not with her standing there, practically salivating over him from twenty feet away like some couture-clad ghost. So I drift closer, sipping my champagne as I slow to a stop at her side.
“You look lovely.”
She startles, clearly too absorbed in her surveillance to notice me approach.
Her eyes snap to mine, lips curving into a smile that doesn’t reach them. “Thank you.”
She doesn’t return the compliment—I figured she wouldn’t.
I glance toward Grant and his father—still deep in conversation, still laughing like nothing else matters.
Tilting my head, I ask, “So… what’s his dad like? You must know him well.”
Corrine hesitates only a second, but I catch her stammer over the words. “Barely. I’ve only really met him a handful of times.”
Her fingers betray her nerves—lifting almost automatically to toy with the solitaire diamond at her throat.
Grant’s father seems to spot someone he recognizes and, with a pat on his son’s shoulder, makes his way across the room. I take advantage to steal my target.
“If you’ll excuse me.”
As Mr. Harrow disappears into the crowd, I slide into his place without missing a beat—my hand slipping easily into the crook of Grant’s arm.
He turns to look at me, a touch surprised, until his eyes catch the deliberate curve of my body pressed to his side.
“Didn’t want you to get lonely,” I purr, tilting my head. “Though I’m not sure it’s safe to leave you unattended in this tux. You look a little too tempting tonight, Mr. Harrow.”
His gaze drops to the slit in my dress—and stays there. I shift ever so slightly, accentuating the exposed line of my thigh. A ripple of tension passes through him, low and unmistakable—apparently, Grant Harrow is a leg man. Noted.
He licks his bottom lip, gaze flicking to my mouth. “You look…”
I arch a brow. “Beautiful?”
“Addictive,” he answers.
We hold our stare, neither of us looking away, both agreeing where this conversation is going.
“Walk with me?” I ask, already guiding him toward the edge of the ballroom.
We stroll in a slow, unhurried arc around the perimeter, the buzz of conversation and music fading beneath our own quieter rhythm. We aren’t looking at the party. We’re looking at each other.
“Can I ask you something?” I say softly.
“You can ask,” he replies, eyes flicking down again—this time catching the dip of my neckline before returning to my face.
