“Okay,” she echoed. But something lingered in her gaze, just for a second. Like she wanted to say something. Like she wanted to let me in but I knew she’d rather chew glass than admit what was going on. That was the difference between us. I was the typeto blow up and take out my anger at the court. It appeared that she was the type to fold in on herself so that no one could see the damage. In seconds she’d swallowed it down.
I gave her a small nod, stepped back, and let the door fall shut between us.
She’d been crying. I knew she had, and I hated that I didn’t know why. Hated that I wasn’t the one she called when whatever it was had come crashing down on her.
But I’d figure it out. Whatever it was, whoever hurt her, I was going to get to the bottom of it.
And if there was any way I could fix it, I would.
Even if she never let me touch her again, I’d still try.
Chapter 25
Tyler
Normally,I’d rather eat my own racket than sit through any corporate bullshit hosted by PR. But tonight, Orla said she would be joining us and so I was suddenly showered, dressed in an actual shirt, and acting like a functioning adult.
Luck was definitely on my side or maybe I’d manifested the hell out of it because the moment I stepped into the bar, I spotted her. She had what looked like a bourbon in her hand. Which…huh. Not what I’d expected.
I’d have pegged her as a wine girl. Maybe gin. Something neat, elegant, and classy. But there she was, fingers curled around a short glass, the amber catching the light as she tipped it to her lips.
At least she looked brighter than she had this afternoon. The color was back in her cheeks. She looked as though she’d put on a little makeup, her hair loose around her shoulders. Still tired, maybe, but definitely brighter.
And that dress? Fuck. Me. Soft yellow, loose and fluttery. Low-backed enough to show off her bare, toned shoulders and just short enough to make my pulse trip over itself. Her legs went on forever, and the fabric clung to her waist like it wasmade for her. My mouth went dry at the sight of her. She had no idea how jaw droppingly beautiful she was. There was no doubt, my nervous system had rewired itself to find her in every room. I didn’t even try to hide it anymore.
She was laughing with Cara, her face animated, hands moving as she talked. My shoulders started to unclench, this was good. That was what I wanted, to see her smiling again. The relief hit me square in the chest.
Still, I hung back with a couple of PR guys who were too busy name-dropping sponsors to notice I wasn’t listening. I didn’t want to crowd her after earlier. She’d looked raw enough at that door, like one wrong word might’ve shattered her.
I tried to watch her out of the corner of my eye as she brought the glass to her shimmering, glossed lips. She tipped the bourbon back in one clean gulp, almost slamming the glass back down on the bar.
Jesus Christ.
That didn’t sit right, I felt my jaw clench. Bourbon wasn’t Orla, bourbon was heartbreak. I knew better than anyone that bourbon was someone trying to burn something out of their system. The sight of that glass in her hand made my blood run cold. A heavy and familiar feeling settled in my gut. ??How many had she had already?
I thought she had a migraine; this didn’t seem like the smartest cure. And now she was signaling the bartender for a refill? I watched Cara’s eyes widen before she let out a giggle, clearly amused by this new side of Orla.
I shoved my hands in my pockets and stayed back until the group started drifting toward the restaurant. Through the double doors there was a long banquet table, covered by white linen with too many glasses. I caught up with her just before we stepped through the doors.
“Hey,” I said softly, brushing a hand over her elbow. I knew the softness of her skin intimately by now. “You look better.”
“Oh, yes! Much better!” she answered, way too brightly. Her laugh was sharp and too loud, her hand landing on my arm like she needed the contact to stay upright. Even that tiny touch sent heat through me.
Goddamn it, Reed. Not the time.
We took our seats. Not directly across, but I was close enough that I could keep an eye on her. Which, apparently, was all I did anymore.
The waiter came around, and she enthusiastically flagged him down before he’d even finished pouring water.
“Another drink,” she said quickly, smile stretched too wide. “Espresso martini, please!”
My gut tightened. Vodka? After bourbon? The thought alone made my own stomach curdle. To anyone watching, it was just another drink order. To me, it was a huge burning flare shot up into the sky.
As the dinner went on, so did the drinks. Her voice got louder. Her laugh rang higher, like someone had turned the volume up too far. She tossed her hair too much, leaned in too eagerly and smiled too hard. She was trying to hide something under a layer of bravado. I knew the difference; I’dlivedthe difference and spent years perfecting the art of being loud enough that no one noticed I was falling apart. And seeing that same mask on her face was tearing me up.
I’dneverseen her like this. Not even close.
And it didn’t sit right.
