Chapter 3
Chapter three
Savannah
I need to find Ellie and disappear. That’s my plan as I walk across the formal living room. I need to locate my best friend, mumble something about a migraine, and crawl into the comfy bed in my normal guest room, where I can lock the door and pretend everything is normal.
The party has slipped into its reckless phase. The ties are loosened, heels kicked off, and someone is attempting really terrible karaoke in the sunroom. I weave through the chaos.
I’m two steps from the foyer when a warm palm settles on the small of my back.
I know that hand.
“You ok?” Oliver asks, lips dangerously close to my ear.
I stop under the archway because I have no choice. His body is suddenly the only thing holding me upright. Mistletoe sways above us like a dare. Twenty sprigs of it, all tied with red velvet ribbon, all screaming tradition at me while my pulse riots in my throat.
He doesn’t move his hand. His thumb traces one slow, deliberate circle, and heat floods me so fast my knees buckle.
“Oliver,” I breathe. It comes out like a plea.
His other hand lifts, fingertips brushing a loose strand of hair from my cheek. The touch is feather-light, but it burns. “Look at me.”
I do. Mistake. His eyes are darker than I remember, pupils blown wide, and the way he’s staring at my mouth makes my lips part on instinct. He steps closer, close enough that the front of his sweater grazes mine, and the air between us turns thick, electric.
I want him so much it hurts. I want him to push me against the nearest wall and kiss me until I forget I’m terrified. I want to fist my hands in that charcoal cashmere and drag him into the coat closet and let him ruin me all over again.
Instead, my stomach lurches, violent and merciless. I slap a hand over my mouth and run.
I shove past a startled uncle, nearly knock a tray of champagne out of a waiter’s hand, and slam into the powder room so hard the door rattles. I drop to my knees and barely get the lid up before everything I’ve eaten today makes a dramatic reappearance.
The spasms keep coming long after there’s nothing left. My eyes stream, my throat is raw, and I hate myself for being weak.
When it finally stops, I sit back on my heels, shaking, sweat cooling on my skin. I rinse my mouth, splash water on my face, and stare at the wreck in the mirror. I’m pale and trembling. My lipstick is gone.
I open the door.
He’s waiting.
He’s braced one forearm against the frame, head bowed, the other hand raking through his hair like he’s been fighting himself for the last five minutes. When he hears the click of the latch, his head snaps up. The worry in his eyes guts me.
“Savannah.” My name breaks in half. He reaches for me, then stops himself, fingers curling into a fist. “Talk to me. Please.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. My voice is shredded.
“You’re not fine. You’re shaking.” He steps closer, slowly, like I’m an animal he might spook. “Let me help.”
The hallway tilts. His scent is everywhere, and it’s making my head spin in the worst way. I press my spine to the wall to stay vertical.
“I just need to lie down,” I whisper.
He searches my face, jaw clenched so tight I see the muscle jump. “Tell me what you need.”
You, I almost say. I was hoping you could hold me together because I’m falling apart, and I’m so scared, and I miss you so much it’s killing me.
Instead, I say, “Space.”
Something raw flickers across his face. He nods once, sharp.
I slip past him, careful not to let any part of me touch any part of him, because I’m not sure I’d survive it.
He follows anyway. Silent, three steps behind, all the way to the guest wing. I feel his eyes on my back like a brand.
At the door to my guest room, I fumble with the handle. He reaches past me, his chest brushing my shoulder as he turns the knob. The contact is barely there, but my breath catches anyway.
Inside, the room is dim, a lamp glowing soft gold. I step over the threshold and turn to shut the door.
He’s still in the doorway, one hand braced on the frame above my head, close enough that I can see the pulse hammering at the base of his throat.
“Tomorrow,” he says, voice rough. “We need to talk.”
I swallow. “I know.”
His gaze drops to my mouth again, lingers, then drags back up. “Lock the door behind me.”
He waits until he hears the click before his footsteps finally retreat.
I slide down the inside of the door, knees to chest, and press both palms hard against my stomach as if I can quiet the storm inside.
Tomorrow.
I close my eyes and try not to remember how it felt when he looked at me like I was the only thing he wanted in the entire world. Will he still look at me like that when he finds out my secret?