“Which one?” I whisper.
“The one in the light gray suit.”
I give it a second before I take another look. In the dim light, it’s hard to see his face. I only catch his profile. He’s tall, probably at least in his fifties, with a lean build, short-styled grayish-white hair, and, like almost everyone here, dressed in a designer suit.
I spin us ninety degrees. “I’m not sure. Why?”
She shakes her head slightly. “I just. . . ” She doesn’t finish her thought, but her body has seized up, and something is happening.
“Was he watching us? He could’ve known my dad or . . . I’m with you. He might be curious. Pictures of us will be everywhere tomorrow.”
Her body freezes between my arms. “No, I’ve seen him before.”
“What? Where?”
She pulls free of my arms and takes my hand, leading us toward the edge of the room. She slips her phone from her clutch, draped over her shoulder.
“What are you doing?”
“We need a selfie.” She holds out her phone, but I see exactly what she’s doing. The man is in the background of the picture.
“You think he’s the—”
She shakes her head. “No, but he’s. . . ” She glances at me, something in her eyes I don’t understand.
She begins tapping out a message.
“Ryder.”
“Can we go?” she asks as she presses send.
“Ryder, I don’t understand.”
When her eyes lift to mine, there’s pleading in them for me to stop asking questions, so I do. For now.
“Sure. Let’s go.”
Ryder follows me through the crowd, and when we hit the parking deck, the fresh air mixes with my confusion about what exactly just happened.
We walk side-by-side through the poorly lit garage, Ryder’s head swiveling in all directions.
I went from her in my arms, dancing, to this. Whatever this is.
I wasn’t ready for it to end—those moments of holding her close.
As we approach my Range Rover, disappointment eats at me, along with frustration at myself for allowing all the thoughts I shouldn’t be having.
“Shit!” Her steps halt as her arm jets out to stop me. She spins, taking in the surrounding area.
There’s a loudclang, and Ryder bolts in front of me.
“Get down.” Her voice is tense as she shoves me between two parked cars.
The pound of footsteps echo in the garage and then the loud bang of a door.
“Stay down and don’t move,” she orders, carefully peeking over a trunk in the direction of the sound.
I stare across the space at my white Range Rover sitting twenty yards away, covered in bright red spray paint.
