‘I-I…erm…need some air.’
And then I turn without looking at him or waiting for a reply. Just out, out, out. Away from the music, the heat, the eyes. Finn. I shoulder past the girl in sequins and apologise without stopping. The music fuzzes out as I hit the hallway, the air cooler and sharper, but still too thick.
Not enough. I need to leave. Now. I slip into my shoes.
I’m stupid. So stupid.
Outside, the night smacks me across the face with January chill. Edinburgh, smug and indifferent. I keep walking down the cobbled lane towards the street. Head down. My block heels catch once on the uneven stones, but I don’t slow down. I gulp air like I’m surfacing from a riptide I should never have let pull me under.
Fuck.
That was the edge of a cliff. And I nearly jumped. Voluntarily.
‘Theo.’ His voice knifes through the hush. Not loud, but urgent enough to make me stop.
Still, I don’t turn.
Footsteps close the gap. I mean, he runs for a living, so what was I thinking? Of course he’d eat up the distance between us in no time. Then he’s beside me, breath visible in the streetlight.
‘You forgot your coat,’ he says, holding it up.
‘No, I didn’t.’ I take it anyway and pull it on.
‘I see.’ He keeps his eyes on me. ‘You awright, love?’
I huff a laugh. It sounds nothing like one. ‘Do you think I’m all right?’
‘Think you’re wee bit shook from the…dance.’
‘No shit, Sherlock.’
‘We should go back in,’ he says eventually. ‘They might talk.’
‘Let them.’
He cocks his head. ‘That’s not what you want.’
‘I don’t know what I want.’ And this is true on so many levels.
‘Come back in, Theo. Just for a bit.’
For a second, I actually consider it. His voice is too soft, his face too open, and there’s heat still clinging to my skin from everything we didn’t do. I want to say yes. Or I want to want to. But I can’t.
He waits. Long enough for it to sting. Then he nods. ‘Okay. Then let’s get you a taxi.’
I let him walk me to the kerb, this man I’m fake-dating and real-wanting, who makes me feel seen in ways I didn’t agree to.
As the car pulls up minutes later, I know one thing for sure: I can’t fall to bits over a single hit of his potent pheromones. Not when both our careers are on the line.
If I let myself fall for him, it won’t be pretend. It’ll be real.
And it’ll hurt.
Chapter 8
Finn
Back at the party, the vibe’s gone staler than day-old crisps. I fish an Irn Bru out of the fridge and crack it open, letting the fizz hit my tongue. Bodies slump on sofas, and someone’s out cold in a party hat. Polly’s shouting about going to a club, her makeup smudged beneath one eye. Next to her, a man who has anaesthetist vibes is doing bumps of ket off his phone.
