I can’t be here. I have to get out of here.
I glance back at Malcolm’s position in the crowd; he is talking to a man I don’t know, but his eyes won’t get off me. Like bugs crawling under my clothes. I swallow down the stinging in the back of my throat, begging my breathing to slow. He could be telling that man about me right now. Malcolm doesn’t know the full extent of what’s going on, but he knows Spencer is an actor and my real name. Even at the surface level, it’s enough to get us kicked out of TechRumble. Enough to make me a laughingstock again, enough to tarnish Wyst’s reputation, enough to bury me and everything I’ve worked for in a grave of shame and online gossip.
“You’re shaking,” Oliver says, squeezing my palm. “Are you bad with blood?”
I clamp my eyes shut for a second, trying to assess which course of action will cause the least damage.
Finally, I pick the lesser of two evils, giving Oliver a small piece of the truth. “You said I seemed distracted earlier?”
“Yeah.” He blinks, waiting with bated breath.
I swallow, my mouth dry. “Right before you sat down in front of me, I found out my ex is at the conference.”
He blinks, brows knitting. “I’m guessing that didn’t end well?”
“No, it ended really fucking badly.” My voice cracks.
He studies me. I’m vibrating, glancing around the party making sure Malcolm isn’t anywhere nearby. Fuck, I have no idea where to go. I don’t even have a room key.
I turn back to Oliver, his eyes following me to the man staring daggers at me through the crowd. “Can you take me somewhere that isn’t here?” My voice is squeaky as I look up at him.
He straightens. “Of course, want me to tell your boss?”
Scanning the crowd to locate Spencer, I find him talking animatedly to Dominic, who looks genuinely enthralled. At least he’s making use of those ten minutes Oliver secured.
“No, I don’t want to interrupt them. Are you allowed to leave?” My eyes are watery as I glance up at Oliver’s taut jaw.
“I’m here as an errand boy, and getting you out of here is more important right now.” He squeezes my arm. “Let’s go.”
Leading me out of the thickly crowded room, Oliver puts a protective arm around my waist. “This okay?” His weight around me feels like a buoy stopping me from drowning.
“Yeah,” I breathe. I don’t know whether the feeling of electricity is the stress of seeing Malcolm again or Oliver’s skin on mine. It’s confusing, but my stunted heartbeat evens out as we burst out of the room into the empty hotel lobby and head straight out the front door.
Chapter 20
Business Account (WYST) BALANCE: £2,321.63
Personal Account BALANCE: -£1,857.10
We walk for fifteen minutes up the cobbled streets, early evening twilight blooming across the town up ahead, past little shops selling patisserie, textiles, and cooking equipment all closed up for the night.
“Are you hungry?” he says, our feet clicking against the gravelled pathway.
“Famished.” I nod.
Eventually, once the panic has melted into something more malleable, I realize this is the town I was meant to run to the other day when we make it to the main square. A huge ageing fountain marked with festoon lights and the swelling sound of classical music coming from the nearby restaurants.
We wander past a few until we reach a quiet little bistro with enough tables and chairs to fit maybe thirty people. Some of the tables are filled, a group of friends laughing over a carafe of wine, a family eating quietly as one child plays on an iPad and the other smears ketchup on the tablecloth, a couple deepin conversation, their faces flickering in the candlelight. Oliver hops ahead to open the door for me.
Once we’re sitting, I examine his face for an answer before finally asking the question as we’re led to a table by a smiling older man with a gray beard. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
“That feels like a loaded question.” Oliver shifts to get comfortable in the wooden chair before leaning his forearms on the table. His face softens as it’s cast in candlelight.
I rephrase. “Why, after everything I’ve done? Kissing you, rejecting you, nearly kissing you again, rejecting you again—”
He holds a hand out with a sheepish smile. “All right, you’re just rubbing salt in the wound now,” he says, looking down at the table.
“Sorry. And I’m sorry for being a bitch to you.”
