My pulse spikes.
Jesus, Esme.
I want to groan, pressing my lips together to hold the sound inside.
What the hell was I thinking?
I wasn’t.
That’s the problem.
I felt.
And when I feel with him?
There’s no halfway.
Never has been.
I exhale slowly, dragging my gaze across the crowd—anything to ground myself.
People laughing.
Talking.
Music drifting through the warm night air.
Normal.
This is normal.
So why does everything inside me feel like it’s teetering on the edge of something huge?
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Again.
I don’t even need to check it.
I know who it is.
My producer.
Three messages now.
Probably about the dating segment.
Deadlines.
Ideas.
Men I’m supposed to meet.
I don’t move to answer it.
Because the truth?
I don’t care.
