She stares at me for a long moment. Snow taps against the window behind her. I can hear my own heartbeat.
“I’ll think about it,” she says at last.
It’s not yes, but it’s not no either.
It’s enough.
I nod once and step back before I do something stupid like pull her into my arms right here, where anyone could walk in.
“Tomorrow,” I repeat.
She doesn’t answer, turns back to the window, arms tight around her middle again.
I leave her there, but I’m not giving up. Not tonight. Not ever.
Chapter three
Savannah
I need to find Ellie and disappear. That’s my plan as I walk across the formal living room. I need to locate my best friend, mumble something about a migraine, and crawl into the comfy bed in my normal guest room, where I can lock the door and pretend everything is normal.
The party has slipped into its reckless phase. The ties are loosened, heels kicked off, and someone is attempting really terrible karaoke in the sunroom. I weave through the chaos.
I’m two steps from the foyer when a warm palm settles on the small of my back.
I know that hand.
“You ok?” Oliver asks, lips dangerously close to my ear.
I stop under the archway because I have no choice. His body is suddenly the only thing holding me upright. Mistletoe sways above us like a dare. Twenty sprigs of it, all tied with red velvetribbon, all screaming tradition at me while my pulse riots in my throat.
He doesn’t move his hand. His thumb traces one slow, deliberate circle, and heat floods me so fast my knees buckle.
“Oliver,” I breathe. It comes out like a plea.
His other hand lifts, fingertips brushing a loose strand of hair from my cheek. The touch is feather-light, but it burns. “Look at me.”
I do. Mistake. His eyes are darker than I remember, pupils blown wide, and the way he’s staring at my mouth makes my lips part on instinct. He steps closer, close enough that the front of his sweater grazes mine, and the air between us turns thick, electric.
I want him so much it hurts. I want him to push me against the nearest wall and kiss me until I forget I’m terrified. I want to fist my hands in that charcoal cashmere and drag him into the coat closet and let him ruin me all over again.
Instead, my stomach lurches, violent and merciless. I slap a hand over my mouth and run.
I shove past a startled uncle, nearly knock a tray of champagne out of a waiter’s hand, and slam into the powder room so hard the door rattles. I drop to my knees and barely get the lid up before everything I’ve eaten today makes a dramatic reappearance.
The spasms keep coming long after there’s nothing left. My eyes stream, my throat is raw, and I hate myself for being weak.
When it finally stops, I sit back on my heels, shaking, sweat cooling on my skin. I rinse my mouth, splash water on my face, and stare at the wreck in the mirror. I’m pale and trembling. My lipstick is gone.
I open the door.
He’s waiting.
He’s braced one forearm against the frame, head bowed, the other hand raking through his hair like he’s been fighting himself for the last five minutes. When he hears the click of the latch, his head snaps up. The worry in his eyes guts me.
“Savannah.” My name breaks in half. He reaches for me, then stops himself, fingers curling into a fist. “Talk to me. Please.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. My voice is shredded.
