Page 28 of Sing For Me

“A waiter will come around,” Marissa says, correctly reading my body language. But hovering at the periphery of the party isn’t going to help me either. Already a few people are looking my way, gazes curious.

“Here’s what we’ll do.” Marissa leads me to a much quieter corner of the ballroom where several long tables are set up. There’s barely anyone over here, and the few couples that are appear to be studying whatever’s on the tables.

“Silent auction,” Marissa explains. “You can pretend to take a look at the donations while I run over and get us a drink.” She’s trying to give me time to get acclimated to the social setting, and I could hug her for always knowing exactly what I need.

“Sounds good.”

She gives my arm a final squeeze and darts off, leaving me to take my deep, measured breaths in relative peace.

Wanting to keep my mind occupied so it doesn’t spin off into unwelcome directions, I study the different auction items. Right off the bat, I see a spa collection that I know Marissa would love and jot down my name on the auction sheet. A few spaces down there’s a one-on-one session with some celebrity pole-dancing expert. I snicker as I add my bid, knowing Geoff will kill me when I present this gift for his upcoming birthday.

The donation required to get in here tonight was pretty high, but bidding on a few items isn’t going to hurt my bank account. And I’m a firm believer in paying good karma forward. So I write my name below several more items—a designer purse I think my sister would like (but would never allow me to buy outright), a weekend getaway to Aspen for Luke, who’s nuts about skiing.

It’s not until I’m halfway through the donations that I see the item that makes my heart stutter. A certificate worth five hundred dollars to be used at Ransomed Ink.

Will. That’s Will’s shop. Just like that, my party anxiety switches over into that dull, gnawing ache that I’ve been feeling—and trying to ignore—on and off every day since I met him. I had been so sure that we’d had a connection, so sure that he was flirting with me. The fact that I had actually allowed him to take my number was way more out of character than he could ever know.

But he hadn’t used it. And that hurt worse than it probably should have.

I run my finger over the bottom of the bid sheet, considering. What would he do if I showed up there again? Of course, I don’t need to win an auction item to see him if I wanted to. I could go to his shop any time. Hell, I could call him. He’d given me his number, too.

But I know I’m not going to do that. There’s out of character and then there’s just plain unheard of. It had been hard enough for me to open up to him the little I had that day. No way can I put myself out there enough to call him when I already feel so rejected.

I move my hand away, feeling a fresh surge of disappointment. I’m not going to see him again. And from the way I reacted just minutes ago to a few cameras, that’s probably for the best. I’m clearly nowhere near out of the woods yet when it comes to the whole being-a-hot-mess situation.

I sigh, prepared to move down the table to the next donation, when a shadow falls over the bid sheet in front of me. Expecting Marissa, I look up, some quip on my lips about my urgent need for booze.

But it’s not Marissa. It’s a towering man in a tuxedo and I immediately step back, the way I always do when in close proximity to a man, my heart beginning its now-familiar rapid dance.

“I thought that was you.”

I force the fear back far enough to stay in the moment, looking up into the stranger’s face. And find that it’s not a stranger at all.

“Will?”

His eyes are scanning my face, expression inscrutable. “No one mentioned you would be here,” he mutters finally, looking away.

I frown up at him. Why would someone tell him the details of the guest list? Why is he even here? But the confusion is quickly eclipsed with annoyance. And hurt. From the look on his face, it couldn’t be clearer that he isn’t pleased by this surprise.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” I say, stepping around him to leave the alcove. I’ll just go find Marissa at the bar. Fuck the crowd.

I don’t make it three feet before long fingers wrap around my forearm. Just like in the tattoo shop, the warmth of his skin stops my breath.

My immediate reaction to being grabbed—particularly from behind—is to jerk away. Maybe even scream. But I’m somehow able to keep it together, reminding myself that this isn’t a stranger, that I’m safe.

“I’m sorry.” His low voice is close to my ear, close enough to feel the brush of hot breath against my neck, and I shiver involuntarily. “I didn’t mean to sound like an ass.”

Trying to fix an unaffected expression to my face, I turn to him. “I wasn’t expecting to see you, either.”

He nods, smoothing his hand over his beard. It looks a lot less scruffy than it had a week and a half ago, and there’s something oddly appealing about the idea of him cleaning up for the fancy party.

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t call,” he suddenly blurts out, and the weird warm feeling quickly shifts to embarrassment. The last thing I want to do is to listen to him awkwardly apologize for the rejection.

I hold up a hand. “It’s fine. You don’t owe me anything.”

For some reason, my words have him scowling. “I do, though. I really wanted to see you again, it’s just—”

Oh, God. Forget embarrassing. This is like, cringe-level mortification here. “Will, please. I don’t need you to explain. No big deal, I promise.”