He’s there.
He's headed her way.
She freezes. Her chest’s flip-floppin’. Her stomach’s twistin’ up.
He’s comin’. He’sreallycomin’.
His eyes find hers.
And for half a second, she swears he’s?—
but then he swerves.
Hard left.
Real fast.
Leavin’.
Back toward the stage, avoidin’ her.
She can’t breathe.
Her chest’s caved in, heart sprawled somewhere across the floor.
“Oh, c’mon. Seriously. Duckin’ me?” It flies out fast and slaps the wall.
He stops.
A second goes by.
Then he turns slow, raisin’ a hand in surrender.
“You’re right,” he says, comin’ back her way, shadows stretchin’ long behind him.
His voice ain’t nothin’ but honest as he steps into the light, so close she can smell his cologne clingin’ to his sweaty skin. His eyes are tired, hooded, lashes stickin’, corners wet.
His brow’s all tilted with a lazy ache when he says, “That’s on me. Been on my feet eighteen hours, sweetheart. I’m cooked.”
Abigail don’t know what to say. She ain’t breathin’ right.
“Lemme guess,” she mumbles, “I’m just a face you’ll forget in ten minutes.”
He huffs out a breath, draggin’ a hand down his face. “Nah,” he says. “If I forget anyone tonight, it’s myself. I’m runnin’ on fumes.”
His hand drops to his side, just hangs there, and before her brain can scream,don’t, you’re bein’ crazy, she reaches for it, taking it into her own.
And then she’sholdin’ Andrew Harding’s hand.
And he ain’t pullin’ away.
“C’mon,” she says, her voice wobblin’, but she don’t let it break. “You need five, right? Let’s go. Bartender was talkin' 'boutan old couch in the storage room that no one ever checks it. I’ll sit with you. Make sure you don’t pass out for too long.”
He glances back at the stage, starts to argue, “Nah. You really don’t gotta?—”
But she’s already leadin’ the way. And he laughs under his breath, trailin’ behind her, head low, brow cocked, as ifshe’sthe wild card he didn’t see comin’.
She don’t stop ‘til they’re through the storage room door.
