Page 15

This time, as he smiles, there’s no humor or concealed ‘fuck you’ in it—just something broken and tired lurking behind those pale blue eyes.
How do I get you back?
“You should go back inside.” His head drops, his shoulders sagging. “No point wasting your night babysitting me.”
“And leave you here to what? Spiral further into self-pity? Not happening.”
Because underneath all the bravado and whiskey-fueled defiance is someone who’s drowning and too damn stubborn.
I sigh, letting the fight drain out of me like air from a punctured balloon.
“Look.” I kneel in front of him, leveling our gazes, but he looks away the moment our eyes meet. Coward. “You want to drink yourself into oblivion? Fine. But do it on your own time. Not at some fancy event where half the people in there are waiting for an excuse to tear you apart.”
“Like you care about my image.”
“I care about mine,” I say, “and right now, it’s tied to yours. So suck it up and pretend to be a functional human being for one more hour. Then you can go back to wallowing in your man-pain or whatever the hell this is.”
I push to my feet and smooth down my dress, conscious of his eyes following every motion. The hunger in them makes my skin prickle and I force myself to dismiss it, like always. Does he know? About how sometimes when he looks at me like this, I forget why I’m supposed to hate him.
“One hour.” He stands up, adjusting his cufflinks.
I narrow my eyes, studying his body. His posture’s too straight, and the slight sway from earlier? Gone.
“You’re not drunk,” I say.
“Never said I was.” He adjusts his tie with precise fingers. No tremor, no hesitation. “Maybe just a bit inebriated.”
“You absolute dick. Was this all just an act?”
A strange sense of relief washes over me, that he’s still here, still fighting, even if it’s against me.
“Needed an excuse to get away from the vultures in there.” His lips quirk. “You provided a convenient exit strategy.”
I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms. “I should’ve left you to drown.”
“But you didn’t.” He steps closer, and I catch a whiff of his cologne, spicy and warm. “Lead the way, cupcake.”
We head back into the reception hall, side by side, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries.
Brandon plays his part well, all charming smiles and easy laughter. No one would guess that minutes ago, he was falling apart at the seams.
It couldn’t all have been a lie. I can see it in the tightness around his eyes, which are constantly darting toward the next bar as if drawn by some invisible force. He’s holding himself together with sheer force of will, and I can’t help but admire him for it.
Even if he is a complete ass.
“Food. Now.” He tugs at my arm.
My stomach clenches. “I’m not hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten all night. And I saw you eyeing it earlier.” He stops. “You need something to soak up all this fancy champagne.”
“You’re the one who needs soaking up.” I plant my feet, refusing to budge. “I’m fine.”
A group of women drift past, their gazes lingering. Is it my dress? My makeup? The way I’m standing?
Brandon’s grip on my arm tightens, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me he’s there. “Stop overthinking.”
“I’m not?—”