Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Nathan
I’m late.
In my defense, disguising yourself as a very tall, very grumpy pile of laundry takes time.
I tug my skull cap lower, adjust the sunglasses—even though it’s dark inside—and pull my black hoodie straight.
Jeans, work boots. Nothing flashy. Nothing rockstar.
Nathan Thorn, superstar, is dead tonight.
Just a guy in a crowd.
At least, that’s the plan.
Yeah, yeah, I’m aware the whole grand gesture idea is dumb as fuck.
No one’s going to swoon because I showed up incognito to a middle school play.
But once I said it out loud, I couldn’t not show up.
And hell, I wanted an excuse to see her.
To see Adrianna without her knowing I’m here.
To catch her unguarded.
To breathe the same air for five minutes.
Pathetic? Probably.
But here I am anyway.
The drama teacher—older guy, beard big enough to house a family of squirrels—is rambling onstage about the “innovative modern adaptation” of The Tempest, and the audience is eating it up.
Parents with cameras. Grandparents with tissues. The whole small-town scene.
Interesting.
Cute, even.
But I’m not here for him.
I slip into the back, leaning against the wall, scanning the crowd—and then I see her.
Holy. Fuck.
On any given day Adrianna Bosco could stop my heart with a glance. But right now? She could drop me to my knees.
She’s wearing this charcoal gray knit dress that hugs every curve—soft and full and gorgeous in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
The hem falls just below her knees, and she’s got on ankle boots that show off lace stockings tracing up her calves.
Lace stockings.
Jesus Christ.
My blood heats instantly, rushing south.
There goes my dick—hard as concrete for a woman who can’t stand the sight of me.
The neckline of the dress is one of those oversized cowl things, and she’s tugged it off one shoulder.
The exposed skin glows under the auditorium lights, smooth and perfect, begging for a touch I no longer have the right to give.
Her hair is shiny and thick, curling at the ends, falling halfway down her back like a curtain I want to bury my face in.
She looks happy.
Busy. Focused.
She’s handing out bags of cookies to people in the front row—probably for the drama club fundraiser—and I’m struck stupid by the fact that this is her life now.
Real. Rooted. Beautiful.
Then she turns.
And that’s when I notice him.
Some guy—our age, maybe older—zeroing in on her like he has claims.
He’s dressed neat, clean-cut, school-teacher vibes. But the way he looks at her?
Like she’s his.
Like he bought stock in her smile.
Something ugly and feral stirs in my chest.
He steps in close—too fucking close—and places a hand on the small of her back.
Guiding her. Steering her. Directing her toward the center aisle as she starts to head back to the bakery table.
My fists clench.
The urge to march down there, rip his hand off her, and throw him into the orchestra pit is so strong my muscles tremble with restraint.
Who the fuck is he to look at her that way?
Who the fuck is he to touch her like that?
Who the fuck is he? Period.
My jaw locks. My breath turns sharp.
Because seeing Adrianna—my Adrianna, the girl I lost, the woman I can’t stop wanting—smiling politely while some other man claims space around her?
That’s a whole new kind of torture.
And I’m not sure how long I can keep standing here without snapping.