I want you.
“Yeah.” Nodding, I pull my hands off her hips before she has a chance to push me away. Lifting mine to my mouth, I make a show out of wiping the corner of it where she slapped me. “Make sure you ice that hand.”
Giving me another dry, brittle smile, Millie nods her head while she steps around me. “Good night, Dean.”
“G’night, Mills.” Numb, I mumble it at the wall.
Don’t let her leave.
Stop her.
For fucks sake. STOP HER.
I let her leave.
I don’t stop her.
I don’t even turn around.
FIFTY-TWO
Somehow, I managed to get awayfromDean andthrough the terrace doors without completely falling apart. Thankfully, the section of the ballroom connected to the terrace is empty. Everyone’s been herded into the adjoining dining room for the dinner and auction portion of the event. I can hear them through the partition—laughing and bidding. The tinkling scrape of silver on fine china. The bang of the gavel, signaling another bidding war over. There’s no telling how many paintings my mother has won. The emcee is right—my fatherwillhave to buy another penthouse just to give her a place to hang them, not that he’d mind. My father would do anything for her. Making my mother happy is his favoritething to do.
Hurrying across the deserted room, I recite my plan—the one that’d just been completely derailed by Dean Mercer.
Go downstairs.
Book a room—any room.
Take a shower.
Cry myself to sleep.
I can do that.
I’ll be freshly showered and in the middle of a long, ugly cry within the hour.
All I have to do is get through the next twenty minutes. Pushing my way through the ballroom exit that leads to the elevator, I throw a quick, hurried glance over my shoulder, just in time to see Dean walk in off the terrace. Sure he’s going to walk his way to the auction room so he can rejoin Paige, he surprises me by heading straight for me.
Shit.
Sure that Iwillfall apart if I’m forced to talk to him again, I hurry through the door and practically run for the elevator. Punching the button, I let out a soft bleat of relief when its doors finally slide open. Stepping inside, I hit the button for the lobby and turn, just in time to see Dean, standing less than ten feet away, watching me. He doesn’t say anything and neither do I.
We just stand there and look at each other while the doors slide closed between us.
As soon as he’s gone, I let go. Slumping against the wall of the elevator, I battle back the tears. I can’t cry. Not yet. Not in public.
Keep it together, Millie. Just a little while longer.
In the lobby, I make my way to the reception desk. There’s a small group of people clustered in a loose knot, not more than a few feet from it, all of them wearing formal wear. The women in designer cocktail dresses. The men in tuxedos. I recognizethe man with the cane and the blonde woman from the gala. The man is Henley Gilroy’s brother. From the way he’s got his arm wrapped around her, I’m assuming the blonde is his wife. There’s another man—this one devastatingly handsome. Dark brown hair. Clear green eyes. Tattoos peeking out from the cuffs and collar of his perfectly tailored tuxedo—Conner Gilroy, Henley’s husband—but the woman he’s with isn’t Henley. She’s tiny—barely five feet tall, if she’s an inch. Petite, compact frame. Long, dark hair and wide hazel eyes, set in an adorable pixie face. I recognize her too. Her name is Tess—she was Henley’s maid-of-honor.
Ignoring them, I approach the reception desk while doing my best to pretend they’re not looking at me. I can’t blame them. I probably look as wrung out and disheveled as I feel.
Insane laughter bubbling on my lips, I set my clutch on the counter, in front of the smiling young woman behind it. “Good evening, Ms. Blackwell,” she says, politely ignoring the fact that I look like I just had hate sex behind some bushes on the balcony with my horrible cousin’s on-again-off-again situationship. “It’s so nice to have you back. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like a room please,” I say, giving her a fast head shake when I see the denial form on her face. “It doesn’t have to be a suite. Any room is fine with me. I just need?—”
“I’m so sorry,” she interrupts me as gently as she can. “But we’re booked solid.” Face creased with something that looks very close to panic, she shakes her head. “With the gala and?—”
