Page 65 of Gave Proof Through the Night

And then she’s gone, Suri falling into step beside her.

Clive directs me in a different direction, a shortcut to the front desk, I suppose. As we step into the elevator, he clears his throat next to me, hands clasped, rocking slightly on his heels, and I realize with a small internal groan that I am now expected to make conversation.

“She travels light,” I say. “For an heiress.”

“Understandably,” he says, and doesn’t say anything else.

Once we reach the lobby, he’s on the phone making calls. I have absolutely no idea what restaurant is even open right now, but he eventually hangs up, looking pleased with himself in a way I find almost sweet, and hands me a folded card with a name and an address scrawled on it.

“They’re holding a private room,” he says. “Table’s held under Flurry.”

I don’t correct him. At this point it feels cruel.

I tuck the card into my jacket pocket and thank him.

“Shall I order you a car?”

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

I turn to get the heck out of here when someone crosses directly into my path.

“Hey.”

Worst. Possible. Timing.

Jeremiah. He is, true to form, unfairly handsome in a Team USA hoodie and an expression that could melt steel.

Not here, I think, glancing over my shoulder at Clive. I do the only thing I can do, which is grab his arm and steer him sideways.

“Walk with me,” I say, guiding him to the far end of the lobby.

“Bossy,” he says, but he goes easily.

Once we’re tucked into the dead zone by the potted ficus, out of Clive’s line of sight, I relax a little.

“Hi, Zesty,” I say, aiming for breezy and not succeeding even a little. “Small world.”

“It is,” he says. “I haven’t seen you around in a few days.”

I feign nonchalance. “Hmmm. I guess not. Weird.”

It is absolutely not weird. I have been actively avoiding him for… reasons.

“So… I was a little worried.” His jaw tightens. “After that guy… at the museum.”

“Oh. That? That guy is nobody,“ I say, and toss my hand. “Ancient history. I’m fine. Promise.”

He studies me a beat longer than I’d like. Then, like he’s decided to let it go for now and not forever, he shifts his weight, clears his throat, and says, “So… there’s this gala I’m supposed to go to.”

He looks at his shoes, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s nervous, I realize, and something in my chest does an undignified little flip. He’s actually nervous.

Then he quickly adds, “You don’t have to say yes.”

I tilt my head. “You haven’t asked me anything yet.”

“Oh. Well... would you... like to come? It’s on July eighteenth. Again, no pressure… I just…”

“Yes!”