Page 108

My brows lift a little, but before I can ask, he presses the side button and silences it without glancing at the screen.

“It’s fine,” he murmurs, low enough that no one else can hear.

I study his face, but it gives me nothing. Impassive, steady, like always. Except I know him better than I did a month ago, and I know what his silence can mean. I know when he’s drawing a line and when he’s holding something in.

He laces his fingers with mine under the table, gives them the smallest squeeze, and I let it go.

Then the emcee says my name.

The room breaks into applause, and everything lifts—my heartbeat, my breath. I squeeze Beau’s hand once before I stand, brushing invisible wrinkles from my dress and trying not to trip over my own damn feet.

I take the stage, a little breathless. My voice shakes at first, but then it finds itself. I talk about messy healing and second chances. About art that doesn’t ask for perfection, only honesty. I talk about the kids. The stories I won’t ever forget. And when I finish, it’s quiet for half a second, like the room is holding its breath with me, then the applause rises again.

I glance at our table, and Beau’s the first on his feet, clapping with that stupidly beautiful smile stretched across his face. It makes me feel ten feet tall.

Violet is crying. My mom is crying harder. Harper is clapping in the most eloquent way possible, and Rowan has his fingers pressed between his lips, letting out a loud whistle that cuts through the applause.

But then I catch the moment Beau glances down at his phone on the table. When he looks back up, his smile is still there, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes anymore.

When I return to the table, he’s there. He pulls out my chair, kisses my cheek, and says, “You were incredible.”

His reassuring hand finds mine again despite whatever’s bothering him. I want to ask, but this isn’t the time or place.

After dinner, we mingle with the crowd. I’m floating on congratulations and well wishes, accepting business cards and promises of future collaborations. Through it all, Beau stays close. His hand never strays far from the small of my back, a silent claim that makes my skin tingle every time.

But his phone keeps buzzing. Each time he glances at it, his jaw clenches before he slips it back into his pocket.

“Everything okay?” I finally ask.

He flashes a quick smile. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

But then his hand drops from my back, and I don’t feel it again for the rest of the night.

thirty-three

. . .

Beau

The night winds down. People slip into coats while I linger near the tall windows at the edge of the banquet hall, nursing the last half inch of my drink and trying not to look like I’m checking the time. I’m not. I’d wait all damn night if she asked me to.

Whitley’s in the restroom, and what I’m actually doing is checking my texts again. Same name. Same message worded a little harsher each time. I don’t open it. Just press the side button until the screen goes black again.

Violet and Rowan left a few minutes ago, and Whitley’s mom and sister just ten minutes before that.

It was my first time meeting her family. No rehearsal, no warning, which was probably for the best. I hadn’t even thought about them being here, which was ignorant on my part. But Whitley materialized at my side mid-conversation saying, Mom, Harper, this is Beau. As if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Harper shook my hand first with a firm grip. Then Whitley’s mom pulled me into a hug before I saw it coming, and I let her, because something about her made it impossible not to.

The thing that got me was looking at Whitley standing next to her mom. They have the same copper hair, cheekbone slope, and tilt their head when listening to you. The resemblance is uncanny. But where Whitley’s eyes are hazel, warm and shifting, her mom’s are a clear, steady blue.

I glance down the hallway where Whitley disappeared. She’ll be back any second with a ridiculous story about the bathroom or someone’s shoes or whatever else happened in the five minutes she was gone.

I shift my weight, scan the room once, and spot two guys a few feet away. One in a navy suit nursing a whiskey, the other clearly here to kiss the right asses.

Then one of them speaks.

“Whitley.” He lets out a low whistle. “She was a decent fuck.”