Page 8

Chapter eight

Colton: Tuxes and Tension

R iley’s eyes scanned the crowd, then darted back to the index cards in her hands. Her breathing was shallow, and her lips parted, as if she wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

I’d seen that look before—on teammates about to take a shootout shot in front of twenty thousand fans. But this wasn’t a teammate. This was Riley—steady, confident, bossy-as-hell Riley—and right now, she looked like she might bolt.

I stepped in, closing the distance between us.

“Hey,” I said quietly, catching her hands before she could crumple the cards completely. “Look at me.”

She did, slowly. Her eyes were wide, and I could feel the tremor in her fingers.

“You have three points to make,” I reminded her. “You remember them, right?”

“Yes,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Okay then. Just be Riley. You’ve got this.”

She opened her mouth to thank me, but nothing came out. I grabbed the glass of water from the table behind us and handed it to her.

“Here. Drink. Then go. And be ready for me to say ‘I told you so’ when everyone’s clapping like you just saved a hundred puppies in a single breath.”

That got a small, shaky laugh out of her. She elbowed me lightly, her shoulders relaxing a little.

“Thank you.”

I nodded once, keeping my mouth shut. If I said what I was thinking—about how gorgeous she looked right now—I might not be able to stop. And that was dangerous.

Because Riley, at that moment, was very hard to ignore.

I gave her a little nudge toward the stage, then turned and made my way to the bar.

I grabbed a soda to keep my hands busy and leaned back against the counter, watching as she approached the mic. Her hair was down tonight—long and loose, swaying as she walked. It bounced slightly with every step, catching the soft lights from the stage and throwing back gold.

She wasn’t in work boots or jeans tonight.

She wore a dress—simple, elegant, but somehow completely Riley.

And heels, which made no sense with who she usually was, but also made perfect sense.

She didn’t look like someone trying to be fancy.

She looked like someone who knew exactly who she was—and didn’t care what anyone else thought.

I am not looking at Ryan’s little sister. Or the person who runs the rescue. Or the woman in charge of my PR rehab.

I am looking at Riley. The woman who is making my heart pound.

I can't tear my eyes away from her.

And it's freaking me out a little.

Somewhere between the elbow jab and her whispering thank you, something had definitely changed.

And I wasn’t sure I could shift it back.

“Careful, Hayes. If you stare any harder, you’re gonna pull something.”

I blinked and turned to see Coop sliding up next to me, nursing a club soda with a twist of lime like he was at some swanky cocktail bar.

“I’m not staring,” I muttered.

He gave me a look. “Right. And I’m the starting goalie.”

I took a sip of my drink, ignoring him.

“Just saying, man. That was not a ‘teammate’s sister’ look you were giving her. That was a ‘how fast can I clear my schedule’ look.”

I shot him a glare, but it lacked heat. “It’s complicated.”

Coop nodded toward the stage, where the team owner had taken the mic. He was launching into a painfully detailed speech about community partnerships and franchise legacy.

“Good,” Coop whispered. “Ten full minutes of boredom. Just enough time to spiral about why you’re thinking like this.”

I groaned. “I’m not spiraling.”

“You’re absolutely spiraling.” He leaned in closer, voice low. “You like her. Like, like-like her.”

I sighed, tipping my head back. “She’s my buddy’s little sister.”

“Who’s not so little anymore,” Coop said. “And who just crushed that dress like it owed her money.”

I should have worn a tie. Maybe the red blotches creeping up my neck wouldn't be so visible.

Coop chuckled. “Relax, Hayes. I’m not judging. Just… maybe don’t let her hear you hyperventilating into your soda.”

“I’m not—”

“Yet.” He clinked his glass against mine with a grin, then turned his attention to the stage like he hadn’t just thrown a grenade into my brain.

I was in trouble. Big, unavoidable, beautiful trouble.

I glanced back at Riley, who was just starting her speech. Her voice was strong, clear, and entirely confident.

“Public speaking is my personal nightmare, so thank you all for showing up and forcing me to confront it. Really. This is better than therapy—and cheaper.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd. Riley’s shoulders dropped slightly. I can see the tension easing from her spine as she straightened up. As I listened to her talk I could hear that her voice was gaining confidence with every word.

I stopped hearing the actual words for a second. All I could focus on was her mouth, how it curved when she hit a punchline, the quiet confidence blooming there now. I shook myself, forcing my brain to catch up, just as her voice landed on something that hit deeper.

“People think we rescue dogs. And we do. But they don’t always see how those dogs rescue us right back. They remind us to trust, to forgive, and to love without a reason.”

She paused, scanning the crowd before continuing. Her words seemed to resonate with the audience, drawing them into her story and her cause.

“One of our youngest volunteers came to us not long after his mom died. He barely spoke to anyone—not his teachers, friends, or even his dad, who was desperate to help him reconnect. We paired him with a shy little rescue called Daisy. They sat together in silence for the first few days. Then, one afternoon, he started talking to Daisy first. A few words. Then, a sentence. Then, a quiet hello to our vet tech. Three weeks in, his dad called to say he'd finally heard his son’s voice again, telling him all about Daisy.”

“These donations don’t just keep the lights on. They light the way for healing—for every dog and every person who walks through our doors hoping to feel a little less alone.”

“Thank you.”

Applause erupted when she stepped back from the mic—genuine, loud, and full of warmth. Riley blinked like she wasn’t sure she’d heard it right, but the standing ovation told her everything.

Ryan was the first to reach her, pulling her into a bear hug before she’d even cleared the last step. He leaned down and whispered something in her ear. I couldn’t hear the words, but I saw the way her eyes glossed over and her lips pressed together like she was trying not to cry.

She made her way through a stream of well-wishers, smiling, nodding, and accepting hugs and compliments with a dazed grace.

When she reached me at the bar, I was still holding my soda with a death grip.

She looked a little breathless, cheeks flushed, eyes still glassy.

I put my glass down and pulled her into a tight hug.

I kissed her cheek and murmured, “You didn’t just speak.

You connected. You made people feel something real.

You were... amazing.” She took a deep breath in and rested her forehead lightly against my shoulder.

I pressed a kiss to the side of her head. And held her a little longer.

The room started to settle again—people chatting, drinks flowing, music picking back up. I lost track of her for a bit, just watching from the bar while the night rolled on.

The journalist Vanessa kept circling the room like a bloodhound in heels. I’d been watching her out of the corner of my eye, waiting for her next move. Apparently, she found it.

I watched it from across the room—Vanessa sidling up to Riley, all charm and teeth.

Riley’s posture shifted immediately, shoulders tensing, her laugh dropping mid-sentence.

She nodded once, said something tight-lipped, and then peeled away.

By the time she reached me, the glow from her speech had dimmed.

“She just cornered me,” she said under her breath. “Vanessa. She commented on your family. Said there’s a long track record of getting what they want. No matter who gets hurt.”

My jaw tightened. “Sounds like the kind of trouble she likes to stir.”

“She wasn’t talking about you specifically,” Riley said slowly. “But she wanted me to think it.”

I exhaled through my nose and shrugged. “She was probably talking about my dad. Now you know why I spent every break I could at your place instead of his.”

Riley stared at me, eyes searching, like she didn’t know whether to hug me or walk away. I could see her pulling back—emotionally, not just physically. Like she was trying to compare Vanessa’s words to what she thought she knew about me.

“So that’s all you are going to say?” she asked. “I need to know you’re not like him. But I don't know what to believe when you brush it off like this.”

I stiffened. “I’m not him.”

“You don’t act like you’re him,” she said. “But you do act like it’s all background noise.”

“That’s because it has been. My whole life.”

Her expression flickered. I can't tell if it’s hurt or doubt.

For a second there, I really thought I was getting this right.

I better stop talking before I say something I can't take back.

I guess it was stupid to think that this, us, whatever this was, had started to change. Nope. I'm still waiting for her to believe I have changed. She is still waiting for proof I haven't.

“Why do you keep calling me out?” I asked, the frustration bleeding into my voice. “You say you’re here to keep me honest, but sometimes it feels like you’re waiting for me to mess up. Like you’ve already decided I’ll never get it together.”

I am giving her everything I have, and somehow it’s still not enough.

“One minute, you look at me like I am worth your time. The next, I’m back on trial. I showed up tonight. I helped. I didn’t make a scene. What more do you want from me?”

She folded her arms, but it wasn’t defensive—it was like she was bracing herself. “That’s what I was asked to do,” she said. “Keep you out of trouble. Keep you honest.”

I let out a short, bitter laugh. “Well, congrats. You’re doing a heck of a job.”

Something shifted in her expression—surprise, maybe even hurt. Shoot, I went too far.

“This was never supposed to get personal,” she said, but her voice wavered. “It was supposed to be simple.”

She opened her mouth, then shut it again. One hand smoothed the side of her dress.

I couldn't stop thinking about close we'd been on the dance floor. The way she had fit in my arms. The way I hadn't wanted to let go.

Now we are standing feet apart, and it still felt too close.

I am trying not to show how much I want that moment back.

Well. We’d had something—a sliver of it, anyway. And, as usual, I’d managed to let it slip.

“I didn’t mean—” she started, then stopped. “This isn’t just a job anymore.”

For a second, I believed she meant I wasn’t just a project or a problem she had to fix. That I was more to her than just a promise she made to her brother.

She’d just lit up the entire room—and now here she was, looking like someone had pulled the plug.

Her mouth opened again. I saw the words sitting there, waiting.

But she didn’t say them.

And I didn’t ask.

Maybe that’s what I always get wrong.