And I’m still thinking about Annabelle. Still wanting her. Still replaying her voice.
She’s here on this trip because it’s mandatory. PR oversight, sponsor alignment, brand management.
She’s pretending I don’t exist. And fuck, she’s good at it.
Professional. Polished. Ice-queen level controlled. Except every time our eyes meet, something cracks.
I see it. So does everyone else.
Coach Hale steps into the hallway and claps once. “Team dinner in twenty. Don’t be late. And Dex, if you flirt with another flight attendant or hotel employee tonight, I’m zip-tying you to the luggage cart.”
Dex salutes. “No promises.”
Colby laughs. “I’m bringing the zip ties.”
We start walking toward the exit.
Annabelle is ahead with staff.
Her hair is down. Her coat fitted. Her walk confident.
I’m staring. Not subtle. Not smart. Not sorry.
She feels it. I know because her shoulders tense and she picks up her pace.
Dex spots it immediately because the man can sniff out drama better than a bloodhound trained on bad decisions.
“Ohhh my god,” he mutters. “She’s running from you.”
“She’s not running,” I say.
Eli chimes in. “She’s speed-walking, which is basically emotional running.”
Colby smirks. “I give it three hours before one of you snaps and someone gets pushed against a wall again.”
I ignore them.
Mostly.
***
The restaurant is dim, warm, and upscale. Long tables are set for us. The wine is poured and the team is already loud.
I sit across from Annabelle.
No accident.
She looks up. Freezes for a fraction of a second. Then forces a polite smile.
“Bryce.”
“Annabelle.”
Dex drops into the seat beside me and whispers loudly, “Subtle. Real smooth.”
I kick him under the table. He kicks back.
Dinner happens. Sort of.
