She’s not looking at me. She’s looking at the bartender, ordering a glass of white wine with the kind of casualness that tells me she’s just as aware of me as I am of her.
The bartender hands her the glass. She doesn’t leave.
Silence, the kind that’s so thick you could choke on it.
“So,” she says finally, still not looking at me. “Hannah started, right?”
Right. The nanny. Normal small talk. I can do normal small talk.
“Yeah. Last Monday.” I take a sip of my water, needing something to do with my hands. “Maisie likes her. She makes a good grilled cheese, apparently. That’s Maze’s metric for trustworthiness.”
Tori’s lips twitch. Almost a smile. “Smart kid. Grilled cheese is important.”
“She ranked the last three nannies by their grilled cheese quality. Hannah’s currently in second place, behind Mrs. Hendricks.”
“What about you? Where do you rank?”
“Dead last. My grilled cheese is, and I quote, ‘too crunchy and kind of sad.’”
She laughs. It’s quiet, barely there, but it’s real—and hearing it after ten days of nothing feels like stepping into sunlight after a long winter.
Then the laughter fades, and we’re back to silence.
She’s close enough that I can smell her perfume. Something warm, a little sweet. I want to bury my face in her neck and inhale.
“This is ridiculous,” she says quietly.
“What is?”
“This. Us.” She finally looks at me, her eyes bright with something I can’t name. “The way we’re acting like strangers when we’re not. I hate it.”
My jaw tightens. “You said it was a mistake.”
“I know what I said.”
“So what do you want me to do, Tori? You set the rules. I’m following them.”
She flinches slightly, and I hate that I’m the one who put that look on her face. But I’m also tired—tired of pretending I don’t think about her constantly, tired of acting like that kiss didn’t matter.
“I don’t know,” she admits. “I don’t know what I want. But I know this—” she gestures between us, small and frustrated— “isn’t it.”
I set down my drink.
“Come with me.”
She blinks. “What? Where?”
I don’t answer. I just take her hand—her fingers are cold, trembling slightly in mine—and lead her through the crowd. Past the donors, past the sponsors, past Logan, who raises an eyebrow but has the good sense not to say anything.
Just drink your beer, Cupcake.
There’s a side door near the back. I push through it, pulling her with me, and suddenly we’re in a hallway. It’s empty and quiet, the noise of the party fading to a dull murmur behind us.
“Zay—”
I kiss her.
Not soft this time. Not careful. I kiss her like I’ve been starving for it—which I have—backing her against the wall, one hand on her hip, the other cupping her jaw. She makes a soundagainst my mouth, surprised and wanting, and then she’s kissing me back, fingers twisting in my lapels, pulling me closer.
