Page 230 of The Encore’s Crown

“Anytime,” I say.

She turns away immediately, one hand lifting toward her crew in a helpless little what am I supposed to do with that? gesture.

Rafe looks at me and I look back. It’s brief. Nothing the cameras can understand unless they know the language already. They don’t know Rafe going quiet after interviews where people tried to carve him into something uglier. They don’t know how many times he’s carried this band’s myth on his back and pretended it didn’t bruise. I dip my chin once.

I got you.

Then I’m back beside Natalia, hand still on her waist, pretending I haven’t just committed minor PR vandalism in front of half the industry.

She tilts her head up at me. “Did you just save Rafe Ashton with public obscenity?”

“I said their bassist was fucking sick. That’s a review.”

As the show starts winding down, Natalia is still smiling for everyone who looks our way, but I can see the strain beginning to creep in around the edges.

She adjusts her weight every few minutes. Flexes one foot beneath the table. Tries to hide the way her toes curl inside those ridiculous heels whenever she thinks no one is watching.

I’m watching.

“Give me your foot.”

Her eyes narrow. “No.”

I push my chair back and kneel in front of her. I’m still in the couture suit Elise threatened me not to wrinkle, surrounded by people drinking champagne beneath chandeliers with more money than I'll probably ever earn and Natalia is looking down at me like I’ve just done something indecent. My hand closes around her ankle. I slip one finger beneath the delicate strap, unfasten the tiny buckle, and ease the heel from her foot. The relief on her face is immediate, even though she tries to hide it.

I set the shoe beside me and hold out my hand.

“Other foot.”

"Kiri."

She gives it to me anyway. I unfasten the second strap and slide the heel off, then set both shoes aside. Red marks circle her ankles, and the sight of them pisses me off more than it should. Once both heels are gone, I stand and slip out of my own polished black shoes. Her eyes widen.

“No way.”

“Yes, Kroppy.”

“You can't walk around in socks at a fancy awards show.”

“Watch me.”

“Misiu.”

I bend, collect her heels by the straps, then brace one foot against my shoes to keep them from sliding while she steps into them. They swallow her feet. She looks down, then up at me.

“You look ridiculous.”

“You look comfortable.”

“They’re enormous.”

“So am I.”

Her mouth twitches despite herself. The shoes are still warm when she settles into them, and something in her face softens as she realizes I noticed. That I was paying attention even here, in the middle of all this noise and flash and expensive bullshit. I straighten and hold out my hand.

“Come on. It's time to go back to the hotel.”

She takes it, and when we start walking, me in black socks and her disappearing into shoes three sizes too big, I don’t give a fuck who sees.