She looks up at me then, and whatever she sees in my face makes her lips part slightly, as if her breath has caught on something sharp. Her perfume is subtle and something soft that makes my chest ache in a way I don’t want to name. Neither of us moves, but it feels like we’re dangerously close to something neither of us is ready to touch. The elevator dings, mercifully, and we both shift back a fraction, like the sound physically nudged us.
We walk through the lobby in silence, the sound ofher heels tapping counting down to whatever tonight is going to be. People step aside without realizing why, just reacting to the sight of a man in a suit and a woman who looks like she belongs at the center of every room she walks into.
We walk out of the building and find the town car idling at the curb. I move ahead to open her door because if I stay behind her, I’ll forget how to speak. That dress is already testing every ounce of control I have.
“After you,” I say, gesturing for her to go first.
She hesitates for half a second, then lowers herself into the back seat with a grace she probably doesn’t know she has. The dress pools around her like liquid color. I shut the door and walk around to my side, take one slow breath of the cool night air, and slide in beside her.
The driver pulls away from the curb, city lights flickering across her cheekbones as we merge into traffic. Alycia laces her fingers together in her lap, knuckles white, the only visible tell she probably thinks no one will notice.
“You’re nervous,” I murmur.
She exhales a small, humorless laugh. “You’re very observant tonight.”
“You make it hard not to be.”
Her head turns toward the window, like the glass might give her something to focus on that isn’t me. “We’ll have cameras the second we step out of this car. Sponsors, donors, league reps, and staff are watchingfor any hint of impropriety. We need to be in sync. No surprises.”
“You’re expecting me to lose control.”
“I’m expecting you to be…” She pauses, searching for the word, then sighs. “You.”
That's fair. I nod, looking down at my hands. “And what about you?”
“I don’t know how to pretend tonight,” she admits, her voice cracking the smallest amount. “Not after last night.”
I want to take her hand. I want to say she doesn’t have to pretend with me at all. What comes out is a compromise that feels like the only way through.
“Then we don’t pretend with each other,” I say. “Just everyone else.”
Her breath stutters. A small, broken inhale that feels louder than traffic. For a heartbeat, it feels like we’re balanced on a knife’s edge in the back seat of a car. Either one of us could lean one way and turn this into something else entirely. She finally turns her head, eyes finding mine. They’re fierce and so painfully brave that something in my chest gives way so cleanly it almost hurts.
The car slows as we approach the hotel. Outside, the flash of cameras is already waiting, bright bursts cutting through the early evening. They paint the inside of the car in pulses of white and gold, catching on the line of her neck.
“Ready?” she whispers.
“Not even close,” I breathe. “But I’ve got you.”
Her eyes soften, and for a second, it feels like the whole world holds still. The driver steps out and opens her door. She reaches for my hand, not in a staged, here-are-the-cameras way. Just her finding me, fingers curling around mine, warm and sure.
My heart slams once, hard enough that I feel it in my throat. She shifts toward the open door, still holding on, and I follow because there’s nowhere else I’d be. When she steps out, the static of the crowd erupts, shutters clicking, voices calling our names. She straightens into the light, press-ready smile sliding smoothly into place.
Her hand tightens once around mine before she lets go, and all I can think as I step out behind her is that last night, at my family’s table, we awoke something we’re not going to be able to put back to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Kyle
The door clicks shut behind her, and I stand there for a second in the cool Portland air, trying to remember how to breathe like a normal human. Alycia steps out of the car like she’s done it a thousand times—shoulders settling, chin lifting with that clean, practiced confidence she wears like armor. But then she turns toward me, and the world gets painfully, stupidly small.
“You ready?” she asks.
I nod because vocal cords are apparently optional now. She steps closer, fingers brushing my lapel, smoothing it like it’s muscle memory, as if touching me isn’t the landmine it is.
“Kyle,” she murmurs without looking away, “remember to stay close and smile when you can. Don’t engage unless I cue you.”
“Right.” My voice comes out rough. “Your ideal boyfriend.”
