He doesn’t answer.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with things neither of us are saying. The party continues somewhere beyond this room. I can hear the muffled music, the distant laughter, the clink of glasses and the performance of wealth and philanthropy.
But in here, it’s just us and this strange tension I have no idea how to navigate.
“Your scars,” I say, because apparently my mouth has decided we’re not done humiliating ourselves tonight.
He goes very still. Most people probably look away or pretend not to notice.
Shit. Nice one, Bree.
“I was fifteen,” he says finally. “Home invasion. The guy had a broken bottle.”
The casual way he says it, like he’s commenting on the weather, somehow makes it worse. I think about being fifteen, about having your face carved up by a stranger, about carrying that visible reminder for the rest of your life.
“I’m sorry.” The words feel inadequate. Everything feels inadequate. “I guess... is thatwhy you’re here tonight? For one of those medical grant programs or something?”
He purses his lips. “You could say that.”
He studies me for a long moment. I feel my face growing a bright red under that scrutiny. Not to mention, my underwear is feeling wetter.
Again.
“Well I should go.” I clutch my purse tighter, backing toward the exit like a nervous cat. “For what it’s worth... whoever you are, whatever you do, you’re one super hot dude. Despite the... well, you know.” I nod toward his scarring.
I feel myself growing even redder, and finally feel the bar of the exit door behind me. I press against it, and the door opens... no alarm of any kind this time, thankfully.
I practically run back into the gala, my heart pounding and my thoughts an absolute mess.
I find Sora near the bar, looking pleased with herself and several business cards richer.
“There you are!” She beams at me like I haven’t just been gone for twenty minutes. “I was about to send search and rescue. Where did you disappear to?”
“Nowhere,” I say too quickly. “Just needed some air. And a bathroom. It was a whole thing.”
She studies me with that particular suspicion of a best friend who knows when you’re hiding something. “You’re all flushed. And your lipstick is smudged.”
“Is it?” I mutter, grabbing another glass of champagne from a passing tray because clearly my decision-making skills are already compromised.
Across the room, I catch sight of him returning to the main event. Tall and dark-haired and commanding attention just by existing. And I mean that literally, because people are actually moving outof his way. Not in that polite “excuse me” shuffle you see at normal events, but in that automatic, deferential parting-of-the-Red-Sea way that suggests he carries a very specific type of social currency.
A woman far more beautiful than me touches his arm as he passes. I think that’s the brunette who was speaking on stage earlier, actually. He gives her a polite nod without breaking stride. Two men in tuxedos next to the woman immediately start whispering to each other, their eyes tracking his movement across the ballroom like he’s some kind of rare wildlife sighting.
The whispering spreads like a ripple effect. Heads turn. People lean in to murmur to their companions. Someone actually pulls out their phone, then thinks better of it and puts it away.
Nico, he said his name was.
Just Nico.
Like that explained everything.
Who the hell is he?
And more importantly, why does a man who commands that kind of attention spend his Friday night drinking alone in a private lounge, looking like he’d rather be literally anywhere else?
Also, why did his hand on mine make me wet enough to require an emergency cleanup operation that used half a roll of toilet paper?
There are the questions that matter.
