“All I’m saying is that a nice pair of flats will complement your outfit and not make you stand out in the crowd too much. They’re more feminine, and you’ll be more comfortable!” She argues with the best intentions.
“Yeah. You’re probably right,” I say, and put the heels back to trade them for a cute pair of sandals that match the dress. “I should go, Mom, the girls will be here soon.”
“Oh my gosh, yes, I won’t keep you! Please take photos!” She starts to ramble off a thousand questions, and I field most of them before hanging up. My hands hang at my sides as I tip my head back, breathing through the sting behind my eyes before turning my eyes back on the flats at my feet.
I turn around to set my phone on the island to lace them up, and Brighton stands in the archway to his room in a full suit. It’s a classic black with a white dress shirt and a perfectly knotted black bow tie, and it fits him in all the right places like it was made exactly for his hulking frame. He’s showered, and his hair is freshly cut; this clearly isn’t the Brighton from the Hollow, but whoever he is tonight… It’s a hell of a surprise.
You’re going to have to change your underwear if you keep staring.
Brighton clears his throat, and it startles me out of the trance he put me under.
“What are you doing?” I manage.
“Not a word,” he says, walking out into the living room past me. “That was in your shoe box,” he says, nodding at a silver necklace laid neatly on the island. The exact one I’d been looking for earlier. “And wear these.” He sets the heels at my feet before straightening out.
“Are you sure?” I ask him, and the look he casts over his shoulder is icy, but it’s not meant to scold, it’s meant to encourage, and I can see that now.The difference.“Heels, alright.” I concede and slip into them.
I swallow tightly as he grabs his keys from the wall and shoves them in his pockets before coming back to stand in front of me. He’s still just as tall as me, and I can’t help but smirk. He absolutely notices the amusement on my lips because he nods in satisfaction, reaches around me, his hand brushing my arm, and grabs the necklace.
“Turn,” he says, and I do, careful not to startle him out of the ridiculous favor he’s about to do me. His fingers gently push my hair over my shoulder before he carefully latches the necklace, and it falls perfectly against my chest between my breasts.
“Thank you,” I say, letting my hair fall back against my shoulders.
“Mm,” he nods as I grab my clutch and my phone. The drive to the museum is quiet because I don’t exactly know what to say to him, but he hands me his phone to pick a few songs for the ride, and it quells the rumble of nervousness in the pit of my stomach for a beat. “You like this?” he asks when an Olivia Rodrigo song comes on.
“You don’t?” I scowl.
“There is, in fact, better pop music out in the world,” he argues, and that stubborn strand of hair that never stays put falls free and rests against his forehead in the movement.
“Don’t worry, we’ll fix those musical tastes in no time,” I tease.
He smirks but doesn’t comment as he pulls the truck around to the valet. He hops out, and I go to follow, but he gives me a dirty look as I open the door.
“Don’t,” he says, holding out his hand.
Did he just scold me for opening my door on my own?I try not to mess up my lipstick by chewing on my lip, but it’s hard when this version of Brighton is a gentleman. I’m starting to understand why my mother fawns over James Bond. If this is what she sees… I swallow tightly and try to ignore the mess of emotions causing a storm beneath the surface. I freeze at the bottom of the stairs when the cameras are flashing and all of a sudden feel ridiculously nauseous at the idea of climbing them with every eye in Harbor on me.
I can’t do this.
I can feel the panic rising at the base of my throat, and it’s going to explode violently if I don’t get control of it quickly. My hand shakes in Brighton’s, and his stormy eyes are locked on mine with a warm intensity as he tries to figure out what’s going on without me spelling it out to him. I want to, but the words are caught behind the need to vomit.
“Back in the truck,” Brighton says gently. “Hellcat.” Then, when I don't move, firmer: “Get in the truck.” He snaps each word so he knows I’m listening and holds my hand, stepping me backward to help me back into the passenger seat before taking his keys from the valet and climbing in.
“Brighton, I have to be here,” I choke out as he pulls away from the curb.
My hands rattle around the clutch in my lap, but I tilt my head up and try to pretend there are stars to count on Brighton’s roof. One at a time, I picture them stuck there, in all shapes and colors, and slowly my breath returns to my lungs. He drives two blocks down, makes a right, and drives back up the service road that leads to the back of the museum. He parks in the dark and helps me down onto the gravel like I’m breakable.
“Careful.” His voice is low and cautious with me as he wraps my arm into the crook of his elbow to navigate the path. He knocks on a big metal door, and after a little while, it pops open. I recognize the girl from the Hollow, and she gives Brighton a confused smile as he thanks her and brings me inside. He wanders over and fills a glass with water before handing it to me.
It helps. I can breathe again.
“You done being high maintenance?”
I turn my head to get mad at him for saying that, but find him smirking at me, and I realize that he’s making a joke.
“Oh, ha ha.” I roll my eyes, and he takes the glass from me. I take another long breath in again and nod.
“Out loud,” he says, and something about his tone steadies me.
