Trashy? Like I’m trying too hard? Like I’m trying to be the center of attention? Like a child playing dress-up?
He blinks, dazed. “Pardon?”
“I look very what?”
Like I belong behind the bar, in the background, instead of representing the team with some of the most respected people in the city?
“Sophisticated,” he finishes, finally meeting my eyes. His throat works. That is obviouslynotwhat he wanted to say, but Tate is endlessly polite and pleasant, even to me.
“It’s a sweetheart neckline,” I say stupidly.
“Sweet isn’t the word I’d use.” His gaze flicks at my hair. “You cut your hair. It, um.” He clears his throat. “It’s something.”
It’s something. I bite back a bitter laugh. That’s what he said when he tasted the awful coffee but he didn’t want to be rude.
So not his type. I don’t care.
“Well, see you later.” I start ascending the steps to the grand old hotel, but his warm hand comes to my bare elbow.
“This way,” he says, low in my ear, leading me to the side, where a woman with a clipboard waits. “Tate Ward,” he tells her.
She finds his name on the list. “Thank you. And your date?”
“Jordan Hathaway,” I answer without thinking.
“Notmy date,” he says at the same time in a firm tone, cutting a glance at me.
Oh god. Heat crawls up my neck. That’s what I should have said—that I’m not his date.
“She’s with the Storm as well,” he clarifies as the woman searches for my name.
“My mistake.” The woman smiles apologetically. “You arrived together so I assumed.”
“Definitely not.” He gives her a polite smile, but his features are strained.
She gestures to the side, and Tate’s hand returns to my elbow, leading me forward.
Three lights flash in quick succession, blinding me, and I take an instinctual step back. My body seizes up, my lung capacity suddenly the size of a thimble.
“Are you okay?” I hear him ask in my ear.
“You didn’t tell me there was a red carpet.”
“We always take photos at events. It brings awareness to their organization.”
It’s not like the Academy Awards, with a hundred paparazzi in suits, shouting at us. There are three photographers, but the flashes are bright, and I’m front and center, attention on me.
Exactly where I hate to be.
Another flash. My skin crawls.
“What’s wrong?” Tate’s low voice brings my anxiety down a notch. It’s the same concern from the closet, when I cried.
“Nothing.” Off his arched eyebrow and unbreaking eye contact, I blow out a heavy breath. “Everyone’s looking at me. I never should have worn this dress.”
Another flash. “You don’t like the dress?”
“I love the dress.” I swallow. “I’m not used to being on display like this. I feel like a zoo animal.”
