Page 111 of What Goes Around

“It got damaged this afternoon. A seam tore when I sat down.”

Her pupils dilated. “It tore?”

“Yes.” I lifted my eyes to hers. “I didn’t have time to call. The party was starting, so I found a replacement.”

Her gaze swept over me again, sharper this time.

“This isn’t something you just find at the last minute,” she said.

I met her eyes without blinking. “I got lucky.”

Her lips parted, then pressed together. I could see the questions forming, how, where, with what money, but the room was full, and Marissa never slipped in public.

She forced a smile, wide and brittle.

“Well,” she said tightly, “as long as you’re happy.”

“I am.”

Her hand brushed my arm, possessive, performative. “We’ll talk later.”

I smiled back, soft and unreadable.

“We will.”

Then I stepped past her and fully into the room.

That was when I felt him.

That old, familiar pull tightened in my chest, sharp and unwelcome, like muscle memory refusing to die.

Nick stood near the bar, a drink untouched in his hand, watching me. He didn’t have to try to stand out. At six-foot-three, with broad shoulders that filled out his jacket, space seemed to bend around him naturally. His dark hair was a little longer than I remembered at this age, curling slightly at the nape of his neck. His face still carried traces of youth, softness along the jaw, a hint of baby fat that hadn’t yet sharpened into the harder lines I knew too well.

His brows lifted, confusion flickering across his face before recognition set in.

His gaze moved slowly, openly, from my face to the line of my dress, the way it fell, the way I stood. I didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

Our eyes met.

His were still that familiar blue.

Something in his expression shifted, surprise softening into something more open, more unguarded. Then he smiled.

The same smile. Crooked. Familiar. The one that used to undo me.

For a moment, the noise of the ballroom faded. The music dulled. The laughter blurred into background static.

The last time I had seen him, he had been twenty-four, angry, hollowed out by betrayal and grief, weighed down by resentments he never learned to let go of.

This Nick wasn’t that man yet.

He recovered first. Set his glass aside. Straightened. Then he crossed the room toward me, weaving through the crowd with long, confident strides.

“Ashley,” he said when he reached me.

“Hi, Nick.”

My voice stayed steady, calm and measured, as if my pulse hadn’t jumped at the sound of his voice.