Hope.
Fragile, terrifying, impossible hope.
He just prayed he wasn't too late.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Edie's heel caught on a wrinkle in the red carpet, and she barely managed to turn her stumble into something that might charitably be called a "dramatic entrance."
Smooth, Anderson. Real smooth.
The Emerald Haven Community Center had been transformed for tonight's event—what Sam Kowalski had enthusiastically described as "the annual Enforcers Charity Gala, but make it fun." Twinkle lights dripped from exposed ceiling beams. Tables draped in emerald velvet clustered around a dance floor. A live jazz band played something soft and swinging in the corner, and everywhere Edie looked, she saw hockey players squeezed into suits that barely contained their ridiculous physiques.
She shouldn't be here.
She'd told herself that seventeen times while getting ready in the cramped confines of her camper, standing in front of her tiny mirror and applying mascara with hands that wouldn't stop trembling. She'd told herself that while borrowing a dress from one of the team wives—a gorgeous emerald number thathugged her curves and made her feel simultaneously powerful and exposed. She'd told herself that during the entire walk from the parking lot, her heels clicking against pavement like a countdown to disaster.
You're the mural artist. You were invited. This is professional.
Lies.
This was masochism, pure and simple.
"Edie! You made it!"
Sam appeared out of nowhere, resplendent in a silver gown that made her look like she'd stepped out of a vintage Hollywood film. She grabbed Edie's arm with the enthusiastic grip of someone who'd already had at least two glasses of champagne.
"I wasn't sure you would come," Sam continued, steering her towards the bar with the determination of a woman on a mission. "After everything with—well." She waved vaguely. "You know."
"I don't actually know," Edie said, which was mostly true. She knew something had happened between her and Tarmek, but she still wasn't entirely sure what. One day they'd been tangled in his sheets, and the next she was packing boxes while he stood there like a statue, saying nothing, doing nothing, basically giving her permission to leave.
The camper's ready whenever you want it.
The words still stung.
"Hmm." Sam's expression shifted to something uncomfortably knowing. "Well, regardless. I'm glad you're here. The community sponsors have been asking about you—apparentlythe mural has generated quite a bit of buzz. Word travels fast in small towns."
"Right. The mural. That's why I'm here."
"Of course it is." Sam patted her arm. "What would you like to drink? We have champagne, wine, or something our goalie calls 'liquid courage' that I'm fairly certain is just vodka with a fancy name."
"Champagne is fine."
"Excellent choice."
Sam flagged down a server, procured two flutes of golden bubbles, and pressed one into Edie's hand. The first sip went down smoothly—too smoothly. Edie forced herself to slow down. Getting drunk at a professional event was not part of tonight's plan.
Then again, neither was seeing Tarmek.
But she did.
She saw him the moment she turned away from the bar, and her entire body froze.
He was standing near the entrance, surrounded by sponsors and community members who were clearly trying to engage him in conversation. His suit was charcoal grey, perfectly tailored to accommodate his massive frame, and his long dark hair had been pulled back into a low knot at the nape of his neck. He looked devastatingly handsome.
He also looked awful.
Not in any obvious way—his suit was immaculate, his posture correct, his face arranged into something that might pass forpolite attention. But Edie had spent weeks studying that face, learning its tells, cataloging every microexpression that flickered across his features. She knew what Tarmek looked like when he was content, annoyed, aroused, or exasperated.
