Page 105 of Forty, Flirty & Fall Inn

Wearing the dress I sent.

Hair swept up.Shoes glinting under the crystal lights.The beads of the dress shimmer like starlight against her skin, every inch of her elegance wrapped in the kind of easy confidence she doesn’t even realize she radiates.

She’s breathtaking.

She’s here.

And she’s mine.

Daniella says something behind me, but it doesn’t register.

"Later," I say.

"Luke—"

"Later."

Sage spots me crossing the room, and her face transforms with a smile that makes my chest tight.

And just like that, I forget about everything else.

I cross the ballroom in ten long strides, slicing through conversations and champagne flutes, ignoring everyone and everything that isn’t her.

When I reach her, I don't say hello.

I take both her hands and pull her just close enough to breathe her in.

She smells like warm vanilla and night-blooming jasmine.Intoxicating.

"Hi," she says when I press my mouth to the back of her hand, slightly breathless."Sorry I'm late.There was a Buttercup incident.But I'm here now and?—"

"I fucked up,” I blurt out.

She blinks.“I’m sorry?”

“I fucked up.I know that now.”I stare at the back of her hands as if the apology on my tongue is written there.I sigh."Monday morning.The way I left.I just..."I run a hand through my hair, probably destroying whatever style Daniella insisted on.“That goddamned ambassador emergency.And then me…Just leaving like that, after we'd just?—"

"Luke."She touches my arm, and even that simple contact feels electric."It's okay."

"It's not.You deserved better than me running out like I was fleeing a crime scene."

"Well, technically, there may have been some crimes committed.”She flashes a small smile, green eyes bright."That thing you did with your tongue is probably illegal in several states."

"Sage."

"What?I'm just saying, if we're apologizing for Monday morning activities?—"

"Can we—" I glance around at the very public, very full ballroom."Can we talk somewhere private?"

"Lead the way."

I take her hand, weaving through the crowd toward the French doors that lead to the terrace.

Mac waves as we pass, and Connor raises his champagne in salute, but I don't stop.

The terrace is perfect—heat lamps creating pockets of warmth against the November chill, the city spread below us like scattered diamonds.

We're alone except for the distant party noise and the night air.