“Then what was it about?”
He leans in until our foreheads nearly touch. “It was about not losing you again.”
The confession cracks something open inside me.
“You already lost me once,” I whisper.
“I won’t again.”
The certainty in his voice is terrifying.
“You can’t promise that.”
“I can choose it.” His hand slides higher, fingers curling slightly at my side. “Say it,” he murmurs.
“Say what?”
“That you didn’t like watching them bid.”
I swallow. “I didn’t.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“That you were waiting.”
“For what?”
“For me.”
The truth hangs heavy between us.
I hesitate.
Then exhale. “I was.”
His eyes flare.
“Don’t,” I warn softly.
“Don’t what?”
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you won.”
He doesn’t smile.
“I didn’t win,” he says quietly. “I claimed.”
The word settles deep.
Behind us, the ballroom doors swing open and laughter spills into the hallway. Voices approach. He steps back just enough to look presentable. But his eyes never leave mine.
“Five thousand,” I say lightly, trying to regain control. “You realize Mrs. Dottie is going to expect a very enthusiastic date.”
