Dave's hold on me tightens. His gaze moves from me to Thorne, then back to me
“Really?” I look at Thorne. One word, flat as a closed door.
He doesn't apologize. Doesn't explain. Just holds my gaze like he has every right to be standing here, and the absolute certainty of it makes me want to push him away, even as my body wants to pull him closer.
Dave seems to sense it. He doesn't drop his hand, but it loosens. Just slightly. The difference between holding on and holding space.
"Ivy?" A question without words.
This needs to end. Either between him and me or me and Thorne. "It's okay," I pat his chest. "I need to talk to him."
His jaw works. Then he exhales slowly through his nose, and his hand drops from my waist. He doesn't storm off. Doesn't make a scene. He steps back, meets my eyes with a look that says he sees exactly what's happening and hasn’t decided what to do about it. “Find me after,” he says, then walks away.
Thorne's hands claim my waist. And it's not the respectful, barely-there touch of Dave, but a possessive grip that broadcasts intent. We are too close for propriety, close enough that I can feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of my dress. His cologne wraps around me, notes of cedar and bergamot clouding my senses.
"You just cut in on my date," I say.
"I know."
"That's all you've got?"
"Yes."
The simplicity of it should infuriate me. It does infuriate me. But his hands on me make it very hard to remember why that should matter. Not that I’ll admit it to him.
"Don't," I warn.
"Don't what?"
"Whatever you're thinking right now."
The corner of his mouth shifts. Not quite a smile. But close enough to make me want to step on his foot.
He pulls me closer. "You're making a scene," I murmur, even as my traitorous body melts against his.
"No one's watching," he replies, his breath warm against my ear.
"You don't know that. I'm your lawyer. This doesn't look professional."
His laugh is low and without humor. "No one here knows who you are, Ivy. They're not going to care."
I stiffen in his arms, his words cutting through me like a winter wind. “I get it, Thorne. I’m nobody. But somebody might recognize you and take your picture. And then look into who I am.”
He leans back. “I—”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” I push out of his embrace. “I need some air.”
I step from his arms and walk away, not caring that people might notice. My cheeks burn, eyes prickling with unwanted tears I refuse to let fall. I need the bathroom. I need a mirror and cold water and thirty seconds to remind myself that I am a grown woman who does not cry over men in clubs.
I'm pushing through the crowd toward the back when the bathroom door swings open and Dave steps out, nearly walking straight into me.
We both stop.
"Hey." His voice is quiet, not unkind.
The timing is so absurd I almost laugh. "Hey."
He looks at my face and skips straight past small talk. "It's him, isn't it?”
