Page 98 of The Backup Plan

“When you’re a kid playing sports, the best thing in the world is the snacks after. They’re the whole reason you make it through practice so that you get that brown paper bag someone’s mom brought that has warm orange slices that have been sitting out during the whole practice and a Gatorade.”

“Seriously?” She laughs.

“Dead serious. It’s the best.”

“Then I guess I’ll take it as a compliment,” she murmurs.

What was the context in which I told her that?

“Definitely a compliment.”

We stand there, close but not touching, and surrounded by people, yet somehow alone in the noise.

Someone calls my name. A donor wants a photo.

Duty calls.

Before I step away, I lean in once more. “Thank you,” I say softly.

“For what?”

“For taking care of me the other night.”

Her expression softens, which guts me.

“I didn’t do anything,” she says.

“You did,” I reply. “More than you realize.”

Later—much later—I spot her near the terrace doors. The crowd has thinned there, the music’s softer, and the night air’s cooler.

I can’t resist taking advantage of the moment.

She turns as I step outside, moonlight catching in her hair.

“Lucas,” she says, half warning, half looking around to see if anyone is watching.

“I know.” I stop a careful distance away. “I just wanted . . . needed one thing.”

Her brows lift.

I lean in—not close enough to be reckless, just close enough to be dangerous—and brush a kiss against her cheek. Brief. Chaste.

But loaded.

“Good night,” I murmur.

Her breath hitches.

I leave her there—heart pounding, restraint fraying—because if I stay another second, I won’t.

And when I glance back through the glass doors, I see her watching me leave.

Not leaving yet.

But thinking about it.

And that?