Page 77

He doesn’t ask for a name. Doesn’t need to. The look we share says everything.

You want me to find out? I will.

I grip Laney’s hand a little tighter, grounding myself. I kiss her temple, long and slow, and she leans into it, but there’s still a distance between us.

Not physical. Emotional.

Because she felt it at dinner when I didn’t ask her to come to London.

And now she’s not telling me about Randy. Not fully.

Both of us are holding back.

And time is running out.

The car is quiet.

Too quiet.

Laney’s curled against the passenger-side door, legs pulled up, head resting against the window, her hair a soft curtain hiding half her face. She hasn’t said more than a few words since we left the restaurant, and each minute of silence is pressing heavier against my chest like a slow bruise forming under the skin.

But her hand is in mine.

Laced tight.

Like she doesn’t want to let go even if everything inside her is already pulling away.

I glance over at her again as the headlights cut through the winding road back to my place. The shadows catch the curve ofher cheek, the tight line of her jaw. She’s trying to be still, trying to hold it in.

And I hate that I’ve done this to her.

That I’ve given her reasons to doubt.

I squeeze her hand. She squeezes back.

Not much.

But enough.

By the time we pull into the driveway, the silence has gone from tense to unbearable.

We get out, her hand still brushing against mine, her pace slow as we head up the steps to the front door. I unlock it, push it open, step aside so she can walk in first.

She hesitates in the entryway like she doesn’t quite know what to do with herself.

I shut the door behind us with a quiet click and run a hand through my hair, jaw tight.

“Okay,” I say finally, voice low but heavy with everything I haven’t been able to say all night. “What’s going on?”

She turns, still in her jacket, arms folded loosely across her stomach like she’s trying to hold herself together. She offers me a smile—soft, small, and completely fake.

“Nothing,” she says. “I’m just tired.”

“Laney.”

“It’s nothing, Eddie,” she says again, firmer this time, like repeating it will make it true.

I step closer, not angry, just aching. “Don’t do that.”