Page 215

Outside, Chicago passes in streaks of red taillights and illuminated storefronts. The occasional horn cuts through the low hum of the engine, and somewhere beyond the tinted windows, the city is still very much awake.

Bishop sits beside me, his tuxedo jacket unbuttoned, one hand resting on his thigh. The other is wrapped around mine.

Every so often, his thumb moves across my knuckles.

It's such a small thing.

After everything tonight—the dancing, the way he held me, what he said to those women—it shouldn't be the thing I keep noticing.

But it is.

I glance at him. He's watching the city through the window, his jaw set, the reflection of passing headlights moving across his face.

“Everything okay?”

He turns. “Yeah.”

“You're awfully quiet.”

“Long night.”

I smile faintly. “Good night, though.”

His attention drops to our joined hands.

“Yeah, Becks.” He gives mine a squeeze. “Really fucking good.”

And that should be enough. Except there's something about the way he says it. Like he's trying to convince himself as much as me.

I settle back into the seat and try to ignore the doubt creeping in. Maybe I'm imagining things. Maybe I'm not. But by the time we reach his building, the silence between us feels almost tangible. Not uncomfortable. Just full of everything neither of us seems ready to say.

The elevator has never moved so slowly in its entire mechanical existence.

Bishop stands beside me, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his jacket over his arm. He's loosened his bow tie, leaving the top button of his shirt undone.

I watch the floor numbers climb.

Then his reflection in the polished elevator doors.

Then the numbers again.

When the elevator finally opens, I'm almost relieved.

Almost.

Because now we're home. And I have absolutely no idea what happens next.

Bishop unlocks the apartment and steps aside to let me in first. The familiar scent of cedar and clean laundry greets me, along with the faint glow of the kitchen lights we left on earlier.

Darcy is nowhere to be seen. Probably asleep somewhere he’s not supposed to be.

I gather the skirt of my dress and bend to unfasten my heels. My feet practically sigh when they touch the cool floor.

“God, that's better.”

Bishop closes the door behind us. I straighten, holding both shoes by their straps.

He's standing near the entryway, watching me. For a moment, I think he's going to come closer. Instead, he drapes his jacket over the back of a chair.