It doesn’t, the traitorous bitch.
Thomas and Jesse Clarkson do that weird bro handshake hug thing and talk to a few of the spectators. All fans, I realize. I’m not surprised. The Historical Association has been heavily promoting its guest list for the past week, hoping people would come and donate to the cause.
As if he can sense me, Thomas lifts his head and finds me within seconds. In hindsight, he can be looking at an array of people near me. There are men I’m sure he’d benefit from rubbing elbows with, and women who definitely fit his type better than I do.
Yet, I know he isn’t paying them one ounce of attention. Not like he should be. And as if he wants to make that very clear, he comes walking over.
Thump, thump, thump, thump.
My heart has a mind of its own, reacting despite my best efforts to squash its anticipation.
Thomas doesn’t walk over to the beautiful redhead in a tight black dress and heels that make her legs look long and slender. He doesn’t go to the man with a fancy watch on his wrist that he’s looked at no more than three times in the past twenty minutes solely so people can see the little Rolex label in the watch face.
He ignores them completely, coming to a stop mere inches frommein a borrowed dress and shoes with cheap makeup andjewelry on. I don’t have to crane my neck nearly as much thanks to my shoes, which he notices.
“You look…” His throat bobs as he swallows with a shake of his head. “You look beautiful, Winter.”
Winter.
Not kid.
Not princess.
Not sweetheart.
My hands nervously flatten down the front of my dress. “It was my mother’s,” I tell him quietly, staring down at my outfit. “My sister lent it to me for the night, so I’d have something nice to wear.”
When I peek up at him, his eyes are running over the length of my body. He clears his throat and lifts his gaze back up, narrowing on my face.
“You dyed your hair.”
Absentmindedly, I touch the curls that sit loose past my shoulders. “It made sense. Have you seen anyone with pink hair here?”
He frowns at my question. “Who cares? If you like the pink, that’s all that matters.” He pauses, reaching out as if he wants to touch my hair before remembering better. When he lowers his hand, his jaw tics. “I liked the pink.”
A familiar heat rises up my neck and settles into my cheeks. “It’ll be back. Or maybe I’ll do purple. I haven’t decided yet.”
His eyes roam over my face. “Purple would look nice.”
We stare at one another for a moment that seems far too long before I take a step back and gesture toward City Hall. “You should go in. The schedule has you meeting a few VIP guests in about thirty minutes. Then I’ll make sure the photographers get pictures of you with your team. Are the others here yet?”
Working is the only way I can calm my mind and my heart down. It distracts me from the annoying buzz that I feel every inch of me that his eyes go, like he’s physically touching me.
“Winter,” he says quietly, trying to earn my attention back.
But I can’t.
If I look at him for too long, it will hurt.
The truth.
That he isn’t mine.
That I can’t have him.
That this is all temporary.
An infatuation and nothing more.
