I laugh, shaking my head. I lift my glass her way in a quiet toast.
“I’d have appreciated those too, Queen of Hearts.”
I draw out her professional nickname on purpose, loading it with as much erotic subtext as I can.
I see her pupils flare for just a second.
Hit.
And sunk.
“Back to the gift exchange,” she says briskly, turning away, trying (and failing) to hide the blush creeping up her neck.
She starts talking to the others like she’s dismissed me completely.
But I know she hasn’t.
I know she’s thinking about that bodysuit.
I know she’s putting the pieces together—that I bought it for her.
That there was never any other “princess” (other than my sister on the phone).
And I know, with absolute certainty, that tonight, when she’s alone in her bed, she’ll think of me.
She’ll imagine that lace on her skin.
And how I’d take it off.
I hide my grin behind my wineglass.
One–nil, Angel.
The party keeps going. The laughter gets louder, the wine keeps flowing, and everyone looks like they’re having the time of theirlives.
Everyone except one person.
I scan the room. Check the couch, the corner by the tree where Cam and Ivy are exchanging displays of affection that should honestly be illegal for minors—or diabetics.
Nothing.
No Sloane.
She’s been gone for at least twenty minutes.
A dull irritation starts prickling at the base of my neck.
I stand, mumble some vague excuse to Sebastian—who’s in the middle of a speech about outdoor sports—and go looking for her.
I find her outside.
On the back porch of The Snowed Inn.
She’s curled up on the wooden bench in her burgundy coat, knees drawn to her chest. The glow from the string lights outside hits her in profile, casting long shadows across her face.
Sloane Heart, alone and quiet, isn’t something you see often. It’s… a glitch in the system.
I walk toward her slowly. The boards creak under my boots.
