CHAPTER 63
Troy
SHE’S LATE. NOT like the couple-minutes-kind-of late. But the over half-an-hour-type-of late.
Reaching for the front pocket of my trousers, I slide out my phone to shoot off a message to Ana.
About to press send, and the sound of heels clicking against the misty pavement pushes me to look up.
I freeze. Every bone in my body, every nerve, stops, but my jaw—that drops laughably wide open.
A column of decadent midnight blue coats the ground, velvet hugging the figure standing above it with confidence, as if the fabric was tailor-made just for her.
Subtle gems illuminate at her waist and right at the hemline above her chest, though the added accessory hovering right above it cracks into my veins, forcing my mouth to shut as I swallow.
The ends of the backward silk scarf wrapped around Ana’s neck bounce as she moves along the steps toward me.
Leaned against a marble column fronting the country club’s revolving door, I push forward, putting my phone away without looking, unable to tear my gaze off her.
The extra makeup curving along her lashes and cheeks, though rare for Ana, isn’t the culprit for my momentary spell. Every thought has managed to escape my head because her eyes—that have strikingly morphed into the same shade as her dress—are also glued to mine.
She gleams like lightning, lightning out a bottle that couldn’t be tamed by even the toughest stained glass, and I should run, but instead I stand, still frozen in place as she reaches the top step.
“You look—”
The words won’t come out; there are none that will suffice.
“What, Troy?” she says mockingly, dropping her chin. “How do I look?”
“Less revolting.”
What I meant is, you look fucking unreal.
Breathtaking, actually.
She shakes her head in frustration, licking her rosy lips all snarky.
Curving my arm out for her to take, she loops her hand through until our elbows lock.
“Your shoes don’t match,” Ana points out.
“What?” I say, darting my gaze to my feet only to hear the sound of her distracting laugh.
“Sucker.”
Warmth attacks my entire chest, at a very dire crossroads of wanting to laugh right back, roll my eyes, or kiss the absolute shit out of her.
But all I do is just bite my tongue as we step inside.
As soon as we enter, the worst possible thing happens; Mrs. Waterhouse leaps right toward us, pushing Ana off my arm in the process, the reek of Chanel no. 5 cutting into my throat.
“Oh, Troy!” the elderly woman shouts. “So happy you made it!”
“Mrs. Waterhouse,” I greet rigidly.
“Please, call me Susan.”
I’d rather not.
Without warning, three unwelcome kisses slap over my cheeks, surely leaving even more unwelcome marks from the neon red painted across her mouth. “Where’s Violet?” she adds with a frown, pulling back, still not acknowledging Ana’s presence.
I reach for Ana’s shoulder, hoping the gesture signals some sense of a social cue to Mrs. Waterhouse—the lady who never cares leading with any.
“You know Ana,” I say maybe a bit too harsh, but Mrs. Waterhouse does know Ana, and a protectiveness I didn’t expect creeps over me at her intentional obliviousness.
“We’re partners now. And we’re the expected finalists for next year’s Winter Olympics,” I rub that last part in for all the times Mrs. Waterhouse took a cheap shot at a condolence about my mom.
Her eyes as carefree as always, she fawns out, “What happened to you and Violet? You were perfect together.”
It’s like every word I just uttered did the very opposite of what I’d hoped.
The woman dressed in a long-sleeved white gown covered in comically big sequins makes a cheap attempt at a glance in Ana’s direction, immediately focusing back on me.
I don’t like how she looked at Ana; I don’t like it at all.
And I hate the way Ana’s face seems to fall at the woman’s meaningless words.
I search Ana’s face to somehow communicate with her above the chaos, but the moment her eyes read mine, she blinks all emotion away.
“I’m going to go get a drink,” she says curtly.
“I’ll come with you,” I say because I really don’t want to stay here and entertain this woman a second longer.
“No, stay,” Ana insists. “I’ll save you a seat.”
Before I can protest further, she strides off, disappearing into the crowd of hockey players and skaters.
_________
The fundraiser portion of the gala flew right by—and was awkward as hell.
Ana did save me a seat, but that was the end of the positive notes of the evening so far.
Her sudden quietness in the ballroom was chilling, the regret in her eyes a bullet to my chest.
Then guilt took over, reminded that I’m the one who convinced her to join me tonight, ironically not because of Violet. That blue dress was meant to be Ana’s, though the invitation was for her to have a good time.
Which has failed miserably, seeing as she was berated upon our arrival.
Since the cocktail reception began afterward, I lost her again.
Searching through the lobby with no luck, I move back into the ballroom where the seats have now cleared into a dance floor.
To my right, I feel a bump to my shoulder, shifting around to find Carter Reid shoving past Antonio and Scott, to where Chloe and Isabella are chatting beside the bowl of fruit punch.
The girls exchange a knowing smile as Carter sandwiches himself between them, sleazily wrapping his arms over each of their shoulders.
My reflex tells me to walk right up and warn them not to fall for any of Reid’s typical shit. We all grew up together, but we’re also adults now; if they’d like to entertain the jerk, that’s none of my business.
When I turn back around, my chest snaps in half.
A set of hands rest comfortably above Ana’s hips, the mesmerized guy before her standing way too close.
Any rationale dissolves, launching me forward and in their direction.
Standing between them, I clear my throat, and that’s all that seems necessary to shake off the ginger’s very touchy hold on my skating partner.
“Charming guy,” I say dryly once he leaves.
Ana rolls her eyes as half our hands lock, her other begrudgingly sliding over my shoulder, my other securing around the small of her back.
“I was dancing with him,” she says, something about her tone revealing her disapproval isn’t aimed at the interruption to her waltz.
“Really?” I say. “Cause it looked to me like you were dancing, and he was just tripping over your feet.”
“At least he asked me to dance.”
I grin. “If you wanted us to dance together, you should’ve just said so, dearest.”
Heat coats her eyes. “I’ve danced with you enough during practice. Besides, it was nice to catch a break from your obnoxiousness.”
An unusual level of frustration seethes into me, feeling my jaw clench.
“He doesn’t know how to dance with you,” I grit out.
“You think you’re the only one who knows how to dance with me?”
“The only capable one.”
That gets me a giant scoff.
I play into her hand, lowering my voice. “You told me I wouldn’t be able to handle you. In bed. Remember that?”
Ana’s stretched eyes tells me she’s stunned by my sudden forwardness.
“And if I can’t,” I say firmly, “there’s no way in hell that cartoon character could.”
“And you’re so sure about that?” Her hand drops from mine, both crawling up my shoulders before she snakes them around my neck, tight, the touch straightening my entire back.
“Yes,” I reply.
“Because?” she challenges, tilting her chin at me.
“He wouldn’t know what to do with you.”
“And you would?”
I lean in so only she can hear me, leveling my face to her side profile, feeling the heat from her cheek pierce my skin.
“I know you’d want it rough,” I whisper. “That’s why you wore this scarf, right? Wanted to test my damn patience.” Feeling her breath hitch, I smirk.
“It’s just a scarf,” she says softly.
“And he wouldn’t have a clue what to do with it.”
Pushing myself back, I watch Ana’s aroused gaze trail over my mouth, abruptly lifting back to my eyes when she realizes she just got caught.
“It was lovely dancing with you, Annabel.”
With a phantom kiss to the top of her hand, I walk away.
_________
Ana
I just met a new guy. His name’s Ben.
Ben is apparently a grad art major at our university.
Ben runs a photography business on the side, occasionally capturing shots of the Hummingbirds at home hockey games.
Ben likes to fish, spend time with his grandmother, and is in the middle of sharing a story from the time he and his friends were chased by a pack of wolves while snowboarding in Denmark, when a sculpted arm relaxes above my lower back.
Seeing as the idiot to my right just stands there, Ben decides to leave.
And suddenly, I’m very pissed.
“Didn’t get the memo that I’d have a chaperone tonight,” I scold Troy, watching the second guy that he drove away scurry off.
“Just weeding out the clowns you keep choosing to talk to,” Troy says humorously.
“Is that what you’re doing?” I laugh. “Weeding out the clowns?”
“I thought you said you have taste, Ana,” he chides. Your selections beg to differ.”
“Yeah? Who would you select for me, then?”
As Troy scans the crowded ballroom, it dawns on me.
He looks really handsome tonight. He always does.
The exact kind of guy that suits were made for, in fitted onyx dress pants and a matching tux tonight, his hair slicked back enough to really make his perfect bone structure stand out, the unruly strand tucked away, frustratingly, bringing more attention to the streaks of deeper green in his eyes.
While staring at him, I start to wonder why I have been entertaining these other guys, when all the girls here—including the mothers and grandmothers in attendance—are shamelessly gazing at him, even though from his childish antics the past hour, his focus—weirdly—has been on me.
Under my breath, I let out a soft sigh at the unfamiliar, growing desire I’m not supposed to be feeling. Not after he very blatantly rejected me last night.
“Him.”
What?
“He’s perfect for you,” Troy says, tilting his head toward the set of speakers in the corner of the room.