So as the ball started to drop, and we were seconds away from the New Year, I leaned in. Pressing my chest against his and my arms around his neck, my lips got closer and closer to his. Onlyfor him to remove my arms from his body and take a giant step backward. It was so unexpected that I almost stumbled forward to fall flat on my face. But even in rejecting me, he didn’t let me fall. He grabbed me by my waist, righting me up, and asked if I was okay. Like he didn’t rip out my heart and stomp on it. All I could do was nod. And then the second he glanced away, I scurried to the bathroom and cried for the next hour.
Forcing myself out of my miserable memories, I grab a plate, trying to look normal, but my hands are shaking. The room is full of warmth and chatter, the smell of roasted ham and expensive perfume, but I feel like a wire pulled too tight, waiting to snap.
Then the double doors swing open, and the atmosphere in the room dies instantly.
Because Emily walks in.
She is a vision of perfection. Her dress is a shade of lavender and it’s tailored to within an inch of its life. Her hair is sleek, her makeup flawless.
I watch, my stomach twisting into a cold knot, as she throws her arms around his neck. The same neck I threw my own arms around on that New Year’s Eve. She presses herself against him, staking her claim.
While Shane doesn’t hug her back, he also doesn’t remove her and that hurts more than I expect it to. It’s a brutal reminder of reality: He might look at me with what I think are hungry eyes in the hallway, but she is the one who gets to touch him.
Emily pulls back, sliding her hand down his arm to link her fingers with his. She turns, her gaze finally landing on me. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. It gets even worse when she spots me.
“Oh,” she says, her tone dipping as they cross the room together. “You’re here.”
“Hi, Emily,” I manage and force a polite smile. “Happy Easter.”
I wish I had gone with Cordia and Marabella, after all.
Emily pulls Shane closer, dragging him toward the buffet where I’m standing. Shane’s jaw is locked so tight I can see a muscle ticking in his cheek. He won’t look at me.
“So,” she says, looking me up and down, lingering on my off-the-rack dress. “Cordia says you’re still doing the teaching thing? Second grade?”
“Yes,” I say, straightening my spine. “I love it.”
“Cute,” she says, making it sound like an insult. She reaches out, grabbing my hand before I can pull it away. She lifts it, inspecting my fingers with a grimace. “Oh, honey. Look at this.”
I freeze. There’s a faint smudge of teal acrylic paint near my cuticle that I couldn’t scrub off, and my skin is dry from washing brushes all week.
“Your hands are so rough,” Emily says, loud enough for the nearby cousins to hear. She runs a manicured thumb over my knuckles with feigned pity. “And you have dirt under your nails. You really should wear gloves, you know. It’s not very ladylike to not try.”
I try to yank my hand back, shame curling in my gut. I want to disappear. I want to melt into the floorboards.
“I—I washed them,” I stammer, hating how weak I sound. “It’s paint from making Easter Eggs. The kids had a great time.”
“It’s messy,” she sniffs, dropping my hand like it’s contaminated. “Shane, I can’t believe you let guests in looking like—”
“Emily.”
Shane’s voice isn’t loud, but it cracks through the room like a whip.
Emily blinks, startled. “What? I’m just trying to help her. A good moisturizer would—”
“Stop.”
Shane steps away from her. He breaks her hold on his arm and steps into my space. The air between us instantly supercharges, that electric pull from the hallway slamming back into place.
He reaches out and grabs my hand.
He doesn’t inspect it. He cradles it. His palm is warm and calloused, engulfing mine completely. He lifts my hand, not to mock it, but to hold it up like it’s something precious.
My breath hitches. The room goes silent. Shane has never touched me likethisbefore.
“Her hands are fine,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. He glares at Emily, his eyes turning to steel, but his thumb is stroking the back of my knuckles, a soothing caress that makes my knees weak. “Actually, they’re better than fine. They teach kids to read. They work. They don’t just hold a credit card, Emily. Show some respect.”
Her mouth drops open then gapes with shock. “I—I didn’t mean—”
