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I breathe deeply, inhaling jasmine and fresh-cut grass, willing my racing heart to slow.
I'm fighting the urge to scream. Everyone expects smiles, pride. But this homecoming feels wrong. Years away, and now I'm supposed to play happy daughter?
Inside, I'm drowning. This isn't the warm reunion I imagined. It's suffocating.
I run my fingers over the cold stone railing. The garden stretches out below. Lanterns dot the paths. Golden light on green. It's too perfect.
I want to hide in the shadows, stop thinking about the man who's haunted my dreams for longer than I care to admit.
Garrett Hayes.
A man who's known me since I was in pigtails. I shouldn't be thinking about the way his hands looked wrapped around that glass of scotch, or how his voice deepens when he says my name.
A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the night breeze. God, he looks good.
Older, sure, with touches of gray at his temples that only makes him hotter. I shake my head. This is insane. But I can't stop thinking about him.
I lean against the railing, remembering the way he looked at me when I came down those stairs. For a moment, just a fleeting second, I saw something in his eyes that made my heart race. Something that wasn't polite interest or affection. Something that made me feel like a woman.
God, Skylar, get a grip.
Garrett Hayes is off-limits, forbidden territory. He doesn’t want me—how could he? And yet a part of me wonders—but what if he does want me?
“Escaping already?”
I startle at Garrett's voice, spinning to face him in the doorway. Lantern light shadows his face, highlighting sharp angles. He looks dangerous. Tempting.
“Hi.” It comes out breathless. Damn. “I needed a breather.”
“This is your big night, Skylar. Everyone’s here to celebrate you.”
“I swear, if one more person asks me about my 'plans for the future', I might scream.”
I laugh nervously as Garrett smiles. “It's natural for people to be curious. You've caused quite a stir tonight.”
I turn to him, needing to see his eyes. “Are you curious about my plans?”
Silence. His gaze locks onto mine. I forget how to breathe.
“Always,” he says. “You're incredible. Can't wait to see what you do next.”
I blush, heart racing. What does he see in me? But the way he looks at me—like I'm precious—It makes me want to believe him.
I stare at Garrett, stunned by his sincerity. “That means so much, coming from you.”
His face softens. He reaches for my face, then stops. His hand lands on my shoulder instead. A gentle squeeze. Electricity races through me.
I laugh shakily.
His hand stays on my shoulder, burning through the thin fabric of my dress. His eyes darken, and for a heart-stopping moment, I think he might answer my real question, the one I'm too afraid to ask out loud.
Garrett clears his throat, his hand dropping from my shoulder. “Tell me more about the art exhibition you are organizing.”
The abrupt change of subject throws me for a moment, but then I see it—the slight flush on his cheeks, the way he can't quite meet my eyes. Is he flustered?
My heart races at the thought. Maybe I'm not imagining things after all.
I push a little further, testing the waters. “It's going to be incredible—provocative, avant-garde. Not your typical gallery showing.”
