He looks down. His shirt is rumpled and untucked, hair mussed, lipstick probably ghosting his mouth. Couldn’t care less.
Garrett shrugs and slowly begins to tuck his shirt back in, every movement deliberately unhurried. He doesn’t want this to end yet. Doesn’t want to go back out there, where she’ll be busy and he’llhave to make small talk with people he doesn’t give two shits about.
He’d take her home right now if she let him. Strip her out of that dress, pin her down, and fuck every flustered word off her tongue.
But he can feel her pulling away.
“I should, um,” Naomi says, eyes not meeting his. She’s already gone in her head. Already repackaging this into a mistake she can file away between deadlines and deliverables.
“Sure,” he says quietly.
She lingers, taking a deep breath. “This wasn’t…a thing, right?” she says, still avoiding his eyes. “We’re not…catching feelings, or whatever?”
The words slice clean through him.
He forces himself to go still. Shoves down the sting, the hurt. It’s no different than letting in a bad goal mid-game. He feels it. Then he buries it. Let the fire in his veins extinguish. Lets the flicker of hope harden into cold, bitter resolve.
“Copy that,” he says, voice even.
“Um, thank you,” she says, hesitating. “For the, um, stress relief.”
Then he jerks his chin toward the door. “After you.”
She hesitates, eyes finally flicking to his like she’s unsure what she’s walking into now.
He watches her go, hands tucked in his pockets.
Whatever that was—whatever he hoped it could be—it’s not a thing.
CHAPTER 17
NAOMI
The second Naomi steps into the hallway, the din of the ballroom hits her like a cymbal crash. Laughter, clinking glasses, a string quartet sawing cheerfully through a pop medley.
And standing ten feet away—of course,of course—is Mila.
She catches sight of Naomi and Tall exiting the coat check together, and her brows lift.
Not in judgment. But in that uniquely Mila way of saying “you’re going to tell me everything”with a single, surgically precise micro-expression.
Panicking, Naomi does the only logical thing and bolts for the ladies’ room.
Her heels whisper on the ballroom carpet as she hustles away, avoiding the eyes of someone at a nearby table giving her the once-over. Her hair is in disarray. Her lipstick is probably on Tall’s face. Her heart is hammering like it’s trying to escape the dress she just squeezed herself back into.
Inside the ladies’ room, she exhales like she’s been holding her breath for a month.
The mirror doesn’t lie.
She looks...ravished.
Lipstick smudged. Hair wild. Her skin flushed in a way that screams something unprofessional happened.
“God,” she mutters, bracing both palms on the counter. “You absolute dumbass.”
She fumbles in her clutch for concealer and a comb, dabs and smooths and re-strategizes her entire face. Fixes her lipstick with trembling hands. She tries to calm her breathing. Tries to calm hereverything.
But her body still hums like an aftershock of an earthquake. Like every nerve ending is standing up to applaud.
