“You should go in,” I repeat, voice a fraction weaker than before. “You don’t want to be late.”
I can feel him staring at me.
His body all but radiates warmth and want, and it’s a dangerous combination because my soul is cold and needs the heat.
Thomas lowers his voice so only I can hear him. “I’m sorry for not texting you back. I wanted to, but I thought it would be better if I figured some things out first.”
Better for whom? For him? For me? For Emaly? For his career? It’s probably all accurate. I’m the last person he needs to concern himself with. After all, we’ve established that I’m not his responsibility. He doesn’t owe me a thing, not even an apology.
“It’s fine,” I tell him as earnestly as possible. I turn away from him to see a few people looking at us with interest. Too much interest. One of them being his teammate, Jesse Clarkson. “People are watching.”
It’s the only warning I give him before plastering a big smile on my face. The one I use in all my meetings with clients, no matter how much I dread some of them. The one I paint on there that’s faker than the pink-dyed tips that used to be in my hair, but gets me along based on professionalism alone.
Thomas’s eyes go to my nails. “They’re not bright,” he notes, almost sadly, when he sees the boring beige color I painted on them.
My eyes go down to my hands that feel naked, stripped of the neon or pastel colors usually painted on the nails. “I’m trying to be more professional.”
He shakes his head. “You should just be you, sweetheart.”
My heart finds its way to my throat hearing that name. I used to hate it. But now…not so much. And I hate how that makes me feel.
“And who are you, Thomas?” I question. “Is it this version or the one you pretend to be around people so they don’t ask questions?”
He swallows, but doesn’t answer.
Because he knows he’s a hypocrite.
Jesse Clarkson walks over to us and dips his head, offering me a civil smile. “Sorry to interrupt, but we should get going.”
Before Thomas can interject, I nod. “I was just telling him that. You two go in. I think I saw Richard Head go in about ten minutes ago, so I’m sure he’s looking for you. I’ll be up soon. I have a few things to organize.”
It’s a lie. Everything is already set, but I need some air before suffocating myself in his presence again.
Thomas doesn’t introduce me to his teammate, and I don’t bother doing it either. I don’t want to. I don’t have the energy.
Eventually, Thomas relents and shakes hands with at least twelve different people as he makes his way up the stairs. He gets his picture taken, plasters an even faker smile on his face than the one on mine, and doesn’t look back.
I’m glad.
Especially when someone comes up to me a few minutes after he disappears and says, “If you look anymore obvious, dear, you’re going to give yourself away.”
I don’t recognize the accent, nor do I know the large man standing beside me. He’s older. Gray hair, aged face. There’s a tightness to his smile that seems beady and calculated.
“You should have known better than to get yourself involved with a man like that, Ms. Bronte. Or would you prefer I call you Winter?”
How does he know my name? I stand taller, my guard up, and internal alarm bells going off.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” is the only reply I can come up with.
He huffs out laughter and holds out his hand to me. “My apologies. I’m Mikhail Yokav. And I believe you know my son-in-law based on the pictures I’ve seen.”
Everything in me stills.
“Pictures?” I repeat.
He hums, a secretive smile on his face. “I think we need to talk, Ms. Bronte.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
