Oh no.
Fuck.
My stomach drops so fast it feels like I’ve missed a step on a staircase.
“Don’t,” I say.
Too late.
She lifts it.
Her eyes scan the top line.
And then the coffee cup slips from her fingers.
It shatters against the marble floor.
Hot coffee splashes everywhere—including her bare foot.
She shrieks.
Not a composed, dignified sound.
A real one, full of pain, shock, and fear.
“Shit,” I snap, already moving.
But to her I say, firm and sharp, “Don’t move.”
She freezes immediately.
Good.
There are shards everywhere. Razor-sharp white fragments scattered across the marble like broken teeth.
I grab her before she can instinctively step back into them, my hands closing around her waist. Her skin is warm beneath my palms.
I lift her off the ground without thinking.
She doesn’t resist.
Doesn’t even seem to notice.
She’s too busy staring at the paper still clutched in her hand like it might bite her. Then she slowly lets it fall to the floor as if in slow motion.
But when I shift, she winces.
“My foot,” she gasps, her voice high and tight. “It burns.”
"I’ve got you," I mutter, my jaw set.
“Bathroom,” I add, carrying her quickly across the suite.
She’s so light in my arms that it barely slows me down.
Her arms instinctively wrap around my shoulders, and for one stupid, treacherous second, my brain flashes back to last night.
Her legs around my waist. Her breath against my neck. Her voice saying my name.
