My breath hitches. A flush creeps up my throat, blooming across my chest. I know my telltale blush is giving me away—every inch of exposed skin turning traitor.
The room erupts in applause. He smiles, thanks the crowd, and steps off the stage.
And I—librarian, book nerd, introvert in a borrowed dress—find myself doing the most unexpected thing.
Undressing him with my eyes.
TWO
SPENCER
When it’s time for the awards, I find myself… waiting.
Not for the applause. Not for the recognition. But for her.
Rhea Sinclair.
Her name’s etched in my mind—alongside the sharp, elegant clarity of her proposal. Out of over a hundred applications, hers was the one that lingered. Smart. Clear-eyed. Full of purpose.
I remember reading it twice—first with interest, then with something closer to awe.
Not because it was flashy. But because it was rooted in something deeper. There was a steadiness in her language, a quiet urgency that made it feel less like a pitch and more like a promise.
Every detail had weight. Every paragraph was built on the last with surgical clarity. And tucked between the charts and projections, there it was—this undercurrent of something incandescent. Herwhywasn’t performative. It was lived in. Earned. The kind of purpose that doesn’t just chase impact—it creates it.
But behind that proposal, I hadn’t expectedher.
I expected brilliance. Purpose. Maybe nerves and an outdated blazer.
Not someone who walks into a room like a whispered poem in a black satin dress.
And yet—when her name is called as the winner
“The Maplewick Literacy Access Project—Maplewick, New Hampshire. Accepted on behalf of the initiative by Ms. Rhea Sinclair…”
She doesn’t move.
Not right away. It takes her a moment, as if her brain and body need time to sync. Then she stands, blinking slowly.
And I watch her face break open with wonder.
By the time she’s halfway to the stage, I see them—tears. Not the delicate kind. Real ones. Rolling down flushed cheeks. And damn if I don’t feel something sharp and quiet tug behind my ribs.
Now this is a good use of wealth.
She’s about three steps from me when it happens.
Her heel catches, and suddenly she’s off-balance—falling forward—momentum, panic, and black satin all hurtling towards me.
I react without thinking, catching her just before she hits the floor.
And for a split second, time halts.
Her hands clutch at my shoulders, her face just inches from mine.
Our eyes lock—hers wide with panic, then embarrassment, then something else.
Her breath is shallow, warm against my neck.
