"—your brother, what a season he's having—"
"Excuse me," I interrupt, seizing the pause like a lifeline. "I need to use the ladies room. It was lovely chatting with you."
I'm already moving before she can respond, weaving through clusters of Minnesota's elite with practiced grace. But I can feel Easton's stare burning into my back, following my path across the marble floor like a spotlight I can't escape.
The conversations around me blur into white noise:
"—chemistry's been off since the Detroit series—"
"—heard there's some locker room tension—"
"—think they'll hold it together for playoffs?"
Each fragment feels aimed directly at me. Every face I pass could be the one who's seen the blind item, who's put the pieces together, who's ready to watch my carefully constructed world implode for their entertainment.
I need air. I need space.
The French doors to the balcony appear like salvation. I slip through them with what I hope looks like casual poise,trading the suffocating warmth of the ballroom for November's brutal honesty.
The cold bites through the silk of my dress, raising goosebumps along my arms. But it's a welcome shock—sharp and clean and real in a way the performance inside isn't. I grip the wrought-iron railing with both hands, my knuckles going white against the metal.
Minneapolis stretches below me, city lights glittering like ice against the darkness. Up here, the corporate minefield feels distant. Manageable. Just another challenge to navigate rather than a death trap closing around me.
I take a breath. Then another. Feel my pulse begin to settle from its frantic gallop to something merely panicked.
"Knew I'd find you out here." I don't turn, but every muscle in my body goes rigid. His voice—low, familiar, dangerous in all the ways that got me into this mess.
Three days. Three days of one-word texts and avoided eye contact, of taking different elevators and timing my coffee runs to miss him entirely.
Three days of building walls where there used to be warmth, of treating the man I'm falling in love with like a professional liability. Every instinct screams at me to turn around, to let him wrap me in his steady presence until the world makes sense again.
But Vivian's words echo in my mind like a threat:I'm sure you recognize that some risks simply aren't worth taking.
So I've been frozen – stuck in this grey area. Analyzing. Swirling.
"You looked like you were about to short-circuit in there." Garrett doesn't touch me, but he stands close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the clean scent of his cologne mixed with something uniquely him.The space between us hums with everything we're not allowed to say in that ballroom full of cameras and corporate sharks. "Are you okay?"
Such a simple question. But it slices through every defense I've built tonight. The practiced smile crumbles. The polished facade cracks. For the first time all evening, someone is actuallyseeingme—not the flawless strategist, not Easton's sister, not the marketing director who has all the answers.
Just me. Terrified and overwhelmed and drowning in secrets.
"No." The word slips out unguarded, tasting like surrender and relief. "I'm not."
He shifts closer, and I feel the urge to lean into him, to let his strength anchor me against the storm I've been weathering alone. For just a moment, on this dark balcony overlooking the city, we could be real. We could be us.
The French door slams open behind us.
The sound cuts through the night air like a gunshot, making us both freeze. But I don't need to turn around to know who's standing there. I can feel his fury from here, rolling off him in waves that make the November cold seem tropical.
Easton.
He fills the doorway, a towering silhouette against the ballroom's glow, his face set in hard lines. His features seem immobile, locked down tight, eyes blazing with the kind of controlled rage that makes opposing teams think twice about approaching his net.
Those eyes flick from Garrett to me, and I watch him piece together the final puzzle. The way we're standing. The intimacy of the moment he just shattered. The look on my face that I couldn't hide fast enough.
Garrett reads the situation like the veteran he is—quick, calm, tactical. He gives me the smallest nod, a gesture so subtle only I would catch it. Protection, apology, and promise all wrapped in a movement that lasts less than a second.
"I'll see you inside," he says, voice perfectly neutral as he brushes past Easton without a word.
