I pull in a breath. “Let me go,” I say. “I don’t want to cause a scene.”
Something shifts in his face at that. Not anger. Not surprise. More like he’s hearing all the things underneath it.
The wedding outside. The guests. The fact that if anyone finds us in here right now, this whole day turns into something much worse.
His hand drops away, and he takes a step back.
The loss of his heat is immediate, and I hate that too.
I smooth my skirt down with shaking hands and reach for my phone on the side table, needing something ordinary to do, something to remind me I still belong to myself. My fingers close around it, but I don’t move toward the door yet. I don’t trust my legs enough for that.
When I finally look up, he’s still watching me.
“You’re frightened,” he says.
“Yes,” I say. “That tends to happen when my ex tries to force his way into my room, a woman nearly dies at breakfast, and the father of the groom corners me in a side room and asks questions I’m not going to answer.”
His mouth tightens, but there’s no offense in it. If anything, I think he hears the exhaustion more than the accusation.
“I’m not trying to frighten you.”
“I know.” I swallow. “That’s part of the problem.”
Something unreadable passes over his face.
For one second, I think he might push again. Ask anyway. Press until I crack. Instead, he just looks at me with that sameimpossible focus, and somehow restraint from him feels more dangerous than pressure would.
“You should stay near people for the rest of the morning,” he says.
I almost laugh. “That sounds like advice from someone who’s spent his entire life avoiding exactly that.”
“Still.”
I slip the phone into my pocket. “I can manage myself.”
“I’m aware.”
I move toward the door. This time he gets out of my way.
I stop with my hand on the knob and glance back at him. He’s standing where I left him, broad shoulders, calm face, too much presence for the size of the room. If I looked at him long enough, I know exactly what would happen. I’d remember his mouth on me. His hand on my skin. The way I came with his name in my throat five minutes ago as if I’d learned nothing at all.
So I don’t look long.
“We never had this conversation,” I say.
His gaze stays on me. “That won’t be possible.”
I should leave it there.
Instead, I say, “Try.”
I open the door and step into the hallway before he can answer.
The hallway outside is full of staff.
They’re gathered in small, uneasy clusters near the service entrance and the side station, speaking in low voices that keep breaking off whenever someone new steps into view. A few of them look pale. One of the younger servers has clearly been crying. Another keeps wiping his hands on his apron as if he still feels something on them.
I understand that feeling.
