Chapter 2

Connie's POV

The hand at my waist tightened for a fraction of a second before loosening again, careful, as though he were afraid of startling me.

The cold night air still clung to his coat. My nose was pressed against his collar, and I caught something faint beneath it all—cedar, perhaps sandalwood. Something clean and understated.

He didn't move. Didn't say anything.

The silence stretched between us, long enough for me to start thinking he was angry. Then I heard him draw in a slow, deep breath.

I lifted my head and looked at him.

He said nothing. He simply looked down at me, the dim hallway light catching in his eyes. They were deep and still, as though there was something behind them he'd decided not to say.

My gaze drifted, almost without thinking, to his throat. A faint mark sat just below his jaw. One I'd left behind. A reminder of how close we'd just been.

Grayson had never been this close to me. Not once. He'd always kept his distance—polite, reserved, never saying more than necessary. And I'd spent years wanting him anyway. All those years of quiet, careful longing.

Tonight, I finally understood what I was to him.

Someone disposable. Someone he could pass along without a second thought.

The realization hit me, cold and unmistakable. Something inside me went very still.

I don't want to want him anymore.

The thought came out of nowhere. But it felt sharp and real, surprising me with its honesty. Maybe it was the alcohol talking, but for once, I didn't feel like lying to myself.

There were plenty of other men in the world. Plenty of handsome men who wouldn't look at me as though I were something they had to deal with.

I was done.

I'd find someone else. Anyone else. Someone attractive who didn't think I was beneath him.

My eyes returned to the man standing in front of me.

For the first time, I really looked at him.

He had a strong brow, a straight nose, and features so sharply defined they almost seemed sculpted. Amber eyes, half-hidden beneath thick lashes. Sharply defined lips. Even the angle of his jaw seemed flawless.

He had the kind of face that should have looked intimidating, but somehow didn't. He simply stood there, quiet and still, doing nothing at all, and yet he was almost too much to look at.

He's really good-looking.

The thought surfaced before I could stop it, and I blinked in surprise.

I didn't usually think things like that. But the alcohol had loosened something inside me, and now my thoughts were spilling out whether I wanted them to or not.

He was standing right there. Patient. Not pulling away from me the way Grayson always would have.

Fine. Him.

I knew what I was doing, and I didn't. Some part of me understood that I was using him—using a stranger to fill the hole Grayson had just torn through me.

I knew it was stupid.

I didn't care.

I reached up and let my fingers trace the edge of his lapel before sliding my hand around the back of his neck. His skin was warm beneath my fingertips. I brushed my thumb lightly against it.

He didn't pull away.

"You're really good-looking," I said.

My voice came out slow and soft, the words blurred at the edges. Even I could hear how drunk I sounded.

He looked down at me. His throat moved.

"Let go of me," he said. "Connie. You're drunk."

He'd said my name.

Something shifted through the haze in my mind.

How does he know my name?

The question surfaced, lingered for a moment, then dissolved into the warmth behind my eyes.

He must have seen me at the gala. Perhaps he was a friend of Grayson's, someone I'd crossed paths with in one of the crowded rooms. I couldn't quite remember, and I didn't have the energy to figure it out.

"I'm not drunk," I said.

Even as the words left my mouth, I knew how ridiculous they sounded. I could barely stand upright.

He studied me, and something flickered across his expression. It might have been amusement, though I couldn't quite tell.

"Sure," he said. "You're not drunk."

That was when I heard the first camera click.

Then another.

Click. Click-click.

One after another, the sounds came from somewhere in the darkness.

I was too far gone to make sense of what I was hearing. For a moment, I even wondered if I'd imagined them. I didn't turn around.

He went still.

The hand at my waist fell away. He shifted, placing himself between me and the darkness, his gaze cutting toward the far end of the hallway. His entire posture tightened.

"Someone's taking pictures," he said, his voice dropping.

I processed his words slowly.

Pictures. Of us. Why would anyone—

"Oh," I murmured, leaning against his back.

The realization barely registered.

He turned toward me, beginning to say something, but I rose onto my toes and reached up, cupping his jaw in my palm.

His lips looked so damn kissable. Before I could talk myself out of it, I leaned in.

Just barely. A fleeting brush of my lips against his.

He went completely still. He seemed to stop breathing. His long lashes fluttered once before his hand came up to my shoulder, pressing against me—not hard, but firmly enough to create some distance.

"Connie."

His voice was low and careful, as though he were holding something back.

"Do you know what you're doing right now?"

I didn't answer.

The more he tried to hold me back, the more I clung to him. I pressed closer, tucking my face against his collar, my fingers twisting into his shirt.

The grief and humiliation inside me had nowhere else to go, and I wasn't ready to let go of him.

His palm remained against my shoulder. I knew he could have moved me away easily.

But he didn't.

I leaned closer to his ear.

"Come with me."

He fell silent.

The hallway carpet felt thick beneath my heels, but my feet weren't cooperating. I didn't look back. I simply held on to his wrist and kept moving, afraid that if I slowed down, he'd stop—or change his mind.

When we reached the door, I fumbled with the key card twice before the lock finally beeped green.

I pushed the door open and pulled him inside with me. My shoulder clipped the doorframe. I stumbled, but his hand caught my arm before I could fall, steadying me without a word.

I said nothing. I didn't look at him. I simply reached back and pushed the door shut.

Click.

The lock engaged.

The room was dark. The curtains were half-drawn, and a strip of pale streetlight stretched across the floor.

I turned around and placed my palm against his chest.

I gave him a gentle push.

He allowed me to guide him backward until the backs of his legs met the edge of the bed. Then he sat down.

I stood between his knees, looking down at him.

The alcohol swirled through my head. I swayed, reaching for his shoulders to steady myself. His hands came up to my arms—not pushing me away, simply keeping me from losing my balance.

"Connie." His voice was even. "You've had too much to drink tonight. You're going to wake up tomorrow and regret this."

"No, I won't," I said.

Tonight, I didn't want to be careful. I didn't want to be composed. I didn't want to be the version of myself who stood quietly in the background, waiting for Grayson to finally look up and see me.

He watched me for a long moment.

Then he spoke.

"Then there's one thing you need to remember."

I looked at him.

"What?"

"The man you've brought back to this room tonight..." His voice was low and unhurried. "His name is Adrian Vance."

The name sounded familiar. I felt like I was just on the verge of remembering something about him, like the information was sitting somewhere in the back of my mind, waiting to be retrieved. But the alcohol got there first, muddling everything before I could put the pieces together.

Fine. Adrian Vance, or whatever his name was. It didn't matter.

I let my gaze drift to his lips. Then, before I could think twice, I leaned closer, closing the last bit of distance between us.