Madison looks between them, her gaze ping-ponging from Derek's increasingly pale face to Kruk's utterly impassive one,sensing that something significant just happened but not quite managing to catch exactly what it was. Her perfectly shaped eyebrows furrow slightly, confusion flickering across her features.
"Oh," she says brightly, her voice climbing half an octave in that way people's voices do when they're trying to smooth over an awkward moment they don't fully understand, "like recycling? That's wonderful! We're so passionate about sustainability, aren't we, babe?"
"No," Kruk says flatly, his tone leaving absolutely no room for misinterpretation. His eyes haven't left Derek's face. "Not like recycling."
I grab another champagne flute from a passing tray because my first glass is already empty and I don't remember drinking it. The bubbles hit my bloodstream like tiny effervescent grenades, detonating across my anxiety centers.
"That's so interesting," Madison continues, oblivious. "Derek is in marketing. He just got promoted to Senior Brand Strategist at?—"
"Nobody cares," I hear myself say, and oh god, the champagne is working faster than anticipated.
Derek's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "Excuse me?"
"I said nobody cares." I take another drink. The glass is empty again. When did that happen? "About your job. Your promotion. Your stupid watch that you keep tilting so everyone can see the logo."
Kruk makes a sound that might be approved. His hand settles on the small of my back, fingers splaying possessively across the fabric of my dress.
Heat blooms everywhere he touches.
"Colletta," Derek says in that condescending tone he used to deploy when I'd get passionate about something he deemed unimportant, "are you drunk?"
"Not yet." I snag another glass. "But I'm working on it. Hey, did you know that some species of anglerfish have males that bite onto the female and then dissolve until they're just a parasitic sac of testicles? That reminds me of you and Madison."
Madison's smile goes sharp. "Wow. Classy."
"Oh, you want classy? I can be classy. Watch this." I down the entire glass in three gulps, champagne fizzing up my nose. My eyes water. I somehow manage not to sneeze. "Ta-da."
Kruk's hand tightens on my back. Not painful. Grounding. Like he's anchoring me to the earth before I float away on a cloud of bad decisions and sparkling wine.
"She gets like this," Derek tells Kruk, shaking his head with practiced disappointment. "Emotional. Impulsive. It's why we could never work out. She needs someone who can handle her drama."
"I can handle many things," Kruk says quietly. Dangerously. "You are not one of them."
The temperature around us seems to drop five degrees.
Derek puffs up, which on his frame looks less threatening and more like a pigeon having a stroke. "Are you threatening me?"
"Assessing you." Kruk tilts his head, studying Derek the way a predator studies prey that's already injured. "Finding you lacking."
"Okay," I say loudly, because that subsonic growl is building in Kruk's chest again and people are starting to stare, "we should circulate. Mingle. Do wedding things. Derek, Madison, this has been terrible. Let's never do it again."
I turn too fast.
The world tilts.
My heel catches on absolutely nothing because the universe hates me, and I'm going down, gravity asserting dominance over my poor life choices.
Except I'm not.
Kruk's arm is around my waist, solid as steel, hauling me upright before I can complete my trajectory toward the floor. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, like I'm made of air and champagne bubbles, setting me carefully back on my feet.
"Steady," he murmurs against my ear.
His breath is warm. His body is a furnace against my back. I'm suddenly acutely aware of how big he is, how his arm is still locked around me, how his thumb is doing this little unconscious stroking thing against my ribcage.
"I'm fine," I whisper, which is a lie of catastrophic proportions.
"You are intoxicated."
