Page 125 of Go Back to December
She holds up her phone, where the browser displays a gossipy news site. The headline reads: “New Year’s Resolution: Find a Girlfriend With a Scissor Kick Like This One.”
“Oh my God,” I faintly hear myself say. “Is that—”
Luiza whoops. “They’ve got the security camera footage from the train station.”
She registers the shock crossing my face and adds, “Don’t worry, it’s too blurry to see your faces. And there are no names.”
“Sources say that the couple are high-flyers at legal powerhouse Blackhart & Steele,” Annabel reads.
Mark catches my eye, lips twitching. “High-flyers, huh?”
I cover my face with my hands. Try to tamp down my fright.
“Fucking finally,” Luiza says.
I peek between my fingers to catch Baz crossing the room.
He doesn’t spare a glance at his family as he marches straight over to where I’m on my feet, chair pulled out. And while my hands are itching to wring his neck, my arms automatically circle his back when he pulls me toward him.
His skin is ice-cold.
“You’re freezing,” I murmur.
“I was outside.”
My anxiety mounts at the number of eyeballs focused in our direction, and the fact that he’s working overtime not to shiver.
“Sebastian,” Sofia calls.
Baz blinks out of his daze, realizes we are in the middle of holiday brunch, and kisses his mother an apology.
She frowns. “What is going on?”
Phones ring and ping. Half of the people here have received a notification, so it must be a weather alert. Snow headed in this direction.
When gasps rise over the brunch din, I consider it’s an epic natural disaster. A freak winter tornado. Krakatoa’s blown again, and the Maldives are well and truly done for.
I reach for my phone.
Baz’s hand clamps down on mine. “Wait.”
His grip and the raw look in his eye are terrifying.
Commotion stirs at one of the omelet stations. Waitstaff disperse in all directions as Sybil crashes through the tables, wearing a puffy full-length jacket designed to scale Everest, Sid Vicious boots, and a fedora.
She peers over her Ray-Bans and spots me. When she reaches the table, she holds up her phone and greets me with one word.
“Motherfuckers.”
The city paper headline sprawled across the screen reads, “Blackhart & Steele Building Sold in New Year Deal.”
“Melody.” Baz’s urgent tone lures my attention to his gaze. And the guilt he can’t hide.
“You knew,” I whisper.
He doesn’t deny it.
I choke on the three-letter explanation. “NDA.”
