Page 51 of For the Plot

I nod, jaw tight. I can’t leave now. Not without being obvious. Not without a conversation I don’t want to have.

He cuts across the gallery toward me, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Appreciate you showing up. Kacey’s nervous as hell, but this crowd’s strong. You being here helps.”

I barely hear him. I’m still looking past him. Still looking at her. Skye hasn’t moved. She hasn’t seen me yet. But I can’t stopwatching her. The way she leans in when she listens. The way she bites her lip when she’s thinking. The way every man nearby keeps glancing in her direction.

I’m standing frozen when she finally turns. Her gaze lifts, scans the room, and lands on me.

She freezes. Her lips part. Her eyes narrow slightly, like she’s trying to be sure it’s really me. Then her gaze drops—to the drink in my hand, my shirt sleeves rolled to my forearms—before dragging back up. Her throat works as she swallows. And then it’s just the two of us.

I lift my glass in a slow nod. Nothing showy. Just acknowledgment. But her eyes track me like I’ve grabbed her by the throat. She doesn’t look away so like a moth to the flame, I take the bait and start walking toward her.

“Good evening, ladies,” I say when I reach them.

“Mr. Blackwood," Maya greets, her voice bright and intentionally loud, like she knows exactly what she’s interrupting.

Skye’s gaze flicks to her for half a second, then back to me. “Didn’t think this was your scene.”

“It’s not,” I say, keeping my eyes on hers. “I’m friends with someone who wanted my support here tonight.”

“Of course you are,” she mutters, taking a slow sip of her wine.

Elliot appears behind me again, striking up a conversation with Maya and the artist next to her, but I barely process the words. Because Skye is moving. Turning slightly to glance at the painting beside her. And in the motion, the hem of her dress shifts again, revealing just a whisper more thigh. My body reacts before my mind can shut it down.

“You look…” I clear my throat. “Different.”

“Different as in good or different as in bad?”

“Good,” I say against my better judgment.

“Disappointed?” she says sweetly, but there’s a razor edge underneath.

“Distracted,” I confess.

She huffs a laugh, her cheeks turning the slightest shade of pink. “You’ll have to forgive me, I didn’t know you’d be here,” she says after a moment, softer this time.

“Would it have mattered?”

She shrugs, lips curving. “Maybe I’d have worn something less… distracting.”

“That would’ve been a shame.”

She bites her lip and I can’t look away. If we were alone, I’d have her pinned against a wall, kissing that smart mouth until she forgot how to form words. But we’re not. We’re here… thank God. And I’m hanging on by a thread.

“You planning to stay long?” she asks, voice low.

“Depends.”

“On what?”

I step closer. Close enough that I catch the scent of her shampoo. “On whether or not you keep looking at me like that.”

Her breath catches. Just for a second. But it’s enough.

“I’m not looking at you,” she whispers.

“Yes, you are.”

We stand there, the noise of the gallery fading behind the static in my head. Her gaze drops to my throat, then lower. I don’t move. Ican’tmove. Every part of me is screaming to touch her. But I don’t. Not yet.