Page 26 of Mile High Ex's Dad
I glance at the place settings, the staff, the guests already pretending the spectacle has passed. “It appears dinner is capable of beginning without your immediate intervention.”
The corner of her mouth almost moves. Not quite a smile. More the memory of one.
“I’d still rather be useful,” she says.
My gaze drops, only briefly, to the binder in her arms, the way she’s holding it too high and too tight against herself. Protective. Instinctive.
Something about it pricks at me, but I push the thought aside. Now is not the time to start examining why her posture feels significant.
I lean a fraction closer. “Come with me for a moment.”
Her eyes widen. “What?”
“Outside. You need air.”
“I’m working.”
“You are about to cry in front of people who do not deserve the privilege.”
That stills her. Color rises higher in her face.
For half a heartbeat I think she will refuse on sheer pride alone. Then she draws in a careful breath and says, “I’m not going to cry.”
“No,” I say. “You’re not.”
It comes out gentler than I intended.
Her expression changes, very slightly. Less defiant. More shaken by the softness than she was by my authority.
Christ.
I step back before I make that worse. “Two minutes.”
She hesitates, then nods once.
Good.
I guide her toward the side doors off the dining room, not touching her, though the effort of not touching her is suddenly far more noticeable than it should be. The second we step ontothe covered stone terrace, the air changes. Cooler. Damp. Rain drifting over the lawns in a silver haze beyond the arches.
Behind us, through the glass, the dinner carries on in that false, glowing way events always do after something ugly has happened.
Beside me, she exhales.
Not gracefully, not quietly. Like she has been holding the entire room out of her lungs.
For a few seconds neither of us speaks.
She walks to the nearest column and braces one hand against it, facing the rain. The coat she’s wearing shifts with the movement, the dark fabric hanging loose around her. The sight of it drags up a memory with vicious clarity. My hand sliding under silk. My palm fitting over the lush curve of her waist. Her body opening under mine with a helpless little sound that still lives in the back of my throat if I let myself think about it too long.
I do not let myself.
Usually. Tonight is proving less disciplined than usual.
“You found an interesting way to reappear,” I say at last.
A short, disbelieving laugh escapes her. “You think this was my idea?”
“No.”
