19. Chapter 18
Chapter 18
Layne
What are you doing, girl?
To be honest, I had no idea. My actions surprised me as much as Keaton, if the way he was still staring at me was any indication. No doubt he hadn’t expected the kiss, and yet his response had come promptly. Demanding and heated. The man knew how to kiss, but no wonder—he had plenty of practice.
That thought snuffed out my desire like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water on me. The world around me came back to life, the applause of the gala guests who’d been watching us suddenly deafening. The lights too bright. Keaton wasn’t my husband. Not really. I had married him with the intention to stay together until death parted us. He didn’t. I was just a tool so he could take over Lincoln Grady Distillery. As soon as this year was over, he’d dump me.
My heart twisted, and I hated that it did. Not once in my life had I been anyone’s priority, and wishing I would be was ridiculous. Suck it up, Layne.
God wanted me here for a reason. Hosea probably hadn’t done cartwheels either when he had to marry Gomer.
Not able to look at Keaton any longer, I squirmed free of his hold and turned away.
And came face to face with Regina.
Great.
As usual, her chin was erect as she eyed me down her nose. “Tasteful dress.”
I blinked. Had she just— “Thank you.”
Ignoring me, she gave Keaton a hard look, then stalked off.
The joy that’d just built inside my chest collapsed like a house of cards. What had I done wrong this time?
Or was it something Keaton had done? His brows were drawn low, his jaw muscles taut.
I touched his arm. “What’s wrong?”
He didn’t say anything, but I could practically see the anger boil under the surface. It didn’t need a genius to tell that mother-son-relationship was strained to the snapping point. The only time Keaton wasn’t laid-back was in the presence of his mother. The question was why.
“Do you mind if we leave soon?” I dared to ask. My legs were shaking because I’d been standing way too long. My back muscles felt like they were on fire.
Fire. I scrunched my nose. Was it just me, or did it smell like smoke?
I glanced around. The back of the room, where the small stage was, looked . . . hazy.
“Keaton, I think—”
“Fire!” a man yelled from beside the stage.
The band stopped playing.
“Fire! Everyone get out!”
A beat passed, then people started to stir. The atmosphere shifted from high-spirited to panicked in a split second. Everyone shoved to the exits and the stairs.
A man rammed into me, sending me flying.
Keaton caught me. Pulled me into his arms and warded off the flood of people pressing past us.
Then he swooped me up like I weighed nothing and headed for the stairs. I clung to him as he took two steps at a time, then crossed the entrance hall and stalked out the door into the fresh evening air.
He walked all the way to his Elysium, opened the passenger door, and only then let me down. “Sit.”
I did as told, sinking into the seat. My muscles and bones screamed protest for a moment, then relaxed.
“Here.” Keaton pressed the key fob into my hand. “If it gets too dicey, I want you to go home. Understood?”
I stared at the key fob, then at Keaton. “What—”
“Just do as I said.” He shoved away from the Elysium and broke into a sprint.
Wait, surely he wasn’t going back inside?
But he was. He dodged people still streaming out of the glass building, and disappeared through the door.