“Owen’s rejecting all my matchmaking attempts,” Ava pouts.
Bryce chuckles, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Maybe let the man find his own dates, babe.”
“But he’s terrible at it! No offense, Owen.”
“None taken,” I mutter, grateful for Bryce’s intervention.
My gaze drifts past them to where Slade was standing, but he’s no longer there. I scan the garden, heart rate picking up when I don’t spot him.
“Looking for someone?” Bryce asks, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.
“No,” I say too quickly. “Just taking in the party,” I add, desperate to change the subject. “The music’s great.”
“The band is all local,” Ava says, falling for my clumsy redirect. “They use instruments crafted from reclaimed materials. Even the drum set is made from old barrels and recycled cymbals.”
I feel a presence at my back. I don’t need to turn to know it’s Slade—my body recognizes him, responds to him on some primal level that bypasses conscious thought. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. My mouth goes dry.
“Mind if I steal Owen for a minute?” Slade’s voice is smooth and controlled. “I had a question about…tech companies.”
“Of course,” Ava says. “But don’t bore him with work talk all night, Slade. It’s a party!”
Slade’s hand settles on my lower back, just the lightest touch, but it burns through my shirt like a brand. “I’ll try to keep it brief,” he promises.
He guides me away from the crowd, toward the edge of the garden where the string lights end and shadows begin.
“Having a good time?”
I take a sip of my club soda, buying myself a moment. “It’s a nice party.”
“You seem distracted.”
“Do I?”
His mouth curves into a smile. “You haven’t stopped watching me all night.”
“That goes both ways,” I counter.
He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he steps closer—not touching me, but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
“No alcohol tonight,” he observes, nodding at my glass.
“Seemed wise,” I reply. “You too, I notice.”
“I want a clear head.” His gaze drops to my mouth, then returns to my eyes. “For later.”
The tension between us is thick enough to cut with a knife. Somewhere in the garden, someone laughs. The band transitions to a slower song. None of it seems real compared to the man standing before me.
“Are you still mad about earlier?”
“Mad isn’t the right word.” His voice drops lower, meant only for me. “I don’t like games, Owen. I don’t like being manipulated.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were,” he interrupts, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And now you need to face the consequences.”
The word sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with anticipation.
“What consequences?”
