“A little relaxed,” I repeat, my voice strangled.
He exhales, looking almost pleased with himself. “It’s nice.”
I stare at him in horror.
He pulls the door open wider, clearly still intending to leave. “Come on. Let’s go. I feel fine.”
I follow him into the hallway, on high alert.
Any minute now the THC is going to hit properly, and there’s nothing we can do about it.
We reach the elevators and Jake presses the button.
The doors slide open with a soft ding, and we step inside.
A few moments later, they open again on the ballroom level.
Jake’s gaze flicks past me toward the hallway.
Then back to me.
His eyes soften.
And then he does something that makes my breath catch.
He reaches for my hand.
Laces his fingers with mine like it’s instinct.
“Come on,” he says quietly. “You better not let go. Someone has to make sure I don’t do anything stupid.”
My heart pounds.
The door to the ballroom opens and we step inside together.
Immediately, heads turn.
Jake Morrison is the captain. He’s the center of gravity in every room he enters. And now I’m attached to him like I belong there.
My father stands across the room, talking to a donor in a navy suit. His posture is rigid. Commanding.
His expression softens slightly when he spots me.
We move deeper into the room, shaking hands, smiling, nodding politely. Jake says all the right things. Introduces me properly. Makes sure everyone knows we’re together.
Jake seems perfectly normal for the moment.
And then, out of nowhere, he starts giggling.
One of the sponsors makes a mild joke about hockey penalties, and Jake laughs like the man just delivered the greatest comedic performance of the century.
My fingers tighten around his arm.
Jake leans down toward me and stage-whispers, “Did you hear that?”
“Yes,” I whisper urgently. “Stop laughing.”
“I am stopped,” he whispers back, still smiling.
