Page 38

The door creaks open and footsteps echo against the tiles as a guy in a navy suit walks in, phone to his ear, heading right for the stalls. I straighten immediately, smoothing my jacket.

That’s your cue to leave.

I slip out, into the current of bodies and voices. Everyone here looks like they know the script—glasses lifted, jokes landing easily, handshakes sliding into business cards.

The sound swells the second I step further in. A jazz trio drones somewhere off to the side, saxophone soft and lazy, threading into the clink of glassware. My eyes flick around the room, bouncing off polished shoes and sequined dresses, and the weight in my stomach only sinks lower. What the hell am I supposed to do? Circle the floor shaking hands until I pass out? I’m out of my depth here. Completely.

Shit. Sable.

She’s there—at the bar, half-turned away, a sweep of dark fabric draped low across her back, the curve of her spine catching under the chandelier light. Her hair tumbles loose, dark, glossy waves spilling over bare shoulders, and she’s laughing at something Sam just said. Eleanor leans in with her, the three of them tucked into their own pocket of warmth while the whole damn room tilts toward her like it always does.

She’s beautiful. Even from behind, she’s still so damn beautiful.

Before I know it, I’m moving. Threading through clusters of people with smiles that don’t reach their eyes, past the murmur of conversations I don’t care to understand.

Sam spots me first, grin splitting across his face. “Hey, boss man,” he calls, already reaching back to snag a flute off the bar. He presses it into my hand before I can refuse. “Here, drink up. Night’s young.”

“Thanks,” I manage, fingers curling around the cold stem.

Sable turns at the sound of my voice, just slightly, just enough for the light to catch the edge of her cheekbone, the pout of her lips, the flutter of her lashes. And it’s stupid, how fast everything inside me reacts—like my chest forgets how to hold breath and I’m standing there blinking like I’ve never even seen a woman before.

Don’t stare. Don’t let it show.

“You seeing this?” Sam elbows me lightly, a teasing grin in his voice. “She looks good, right, boss man?”

I cough into the rim of my glass, nearly choking on the bubbles. “Uh—yeah. Yep.”

Smooth. Real inconspicuous, Noah.

Eleanor rolls her eyes, muttering something about men being hopeless, and Sam cracks another line I don’t catch. Because I’m far too busy trying not to look at Sable’s mouth again. Or her collarbones. Or the way her fingertips are wrapped around her champagne glass.

I want to tilt her face up. Want to kiss her senseless. Want to back her into the nearest wall and swallow every last breath out of her until we both forget our own names. Drag her out of this room and into someplace dark where I don’t have to pretend.

A chime pings through the room, followed by a voice over the speaker system. “Dinner will be served shortly. Please begin making your way to the tables.”

Sam tips back the last of his champagne and sets the glass down with a flourish. “You should sit with us,” he says, already steering Eleanor toward the dining room.

My thumb drags over the condensation on my own glass. I could say no. I should say no. But then what? Go find a table alone and pretend I don’t see her all night? Pretend I’m not already drowning just standing here beside her? Then I’d look like an ass too, when my own team’s asking me to sit with them. My brain scrambles for an out and comes up blank.

It’s fine. Just dinner. Stop acting like this is a firing squad.

“Yeah—okay,” I manage, forcing my mouth into something that feels almost like a smile.

We move with the flow of bodies through the glittering room. Sable falls into step beside me. Too close. Her shoulder brushes my arm, that damn vanilla scent slipping under my skin as she leans in. “You look really good tonight, Noah.”

My stomach flips so hard it nearly empties out the champagne.

Oh, God. Don’t stumble. Don’t flush.

“Uh—thanks,” I murmur into my drink. “So do you.”

We reach the table. Sam pulls out chairs for both Eleanor and Sable with a half-bow that earns him a matching set of eye-rolls before he collapses into his own seat between them.

I slide in next to Sable, the air charged the second I settle. Her bare arm brushes mine as she shifts, the whisper of silk skating higher over her thighs. I can’t help it—my eyes follow, catch the slow crossing of her legs, the dress tugging enough to hint at the strip of skin above her knee. I snap my gaze away before I burn a hole through the fabric.

“Hey. I’m from Finance,” the guy on my other side says, offering a hand with a wide grin. “Liam.”

I clasp his hand quick, hoping my palm isn’t clammy, but grateful for the momentary distraction. “Noah. Senior account lead.”