27. Salem
SALEM
The car smelled like leather and one of those pine tree air fresheners someone had clearly tried to hide under the seat. I appreciated it more than I could say; it made the whole thing feel less like I was being transported to my own execution.
I had my phone pressed to my ear before we hit the on-ramp.
“Okay,” Rowan said, skipping ‘hello’ entirely. “Tell me everything. Start with the dress.”
“Black. Strappy. Sparkles for days. Low back. Alba came by herself to help me get ready.”
“Aw, that is so sweet”
“She had a hairstylist and a makeup artist in tow.”
“Salem.” Her voice became reverent. “That is so glamorous.”
“It was terrifying. She seemed emotionally attached to my eyebrows.”
“Everyone is emotionally attached to eyebrows.”
“My eyebrows are fine.”
“Continue. The dress.”
I looked down at myself in the dark of the backseat.
Even though the dress wasn’t my style, somehow, it worked.
The makeup artist had looked at me for approximately forty-five seconds before getting to work, and the result was something I had stared at in the mirror for a full minute before accepting as my reflection.
“It’s good,” I said. “Alba has terrifying taste.”
The highway opened up, city lights beginning to cluster on the horizon.
“Are you nervous?” Rowan asked.
“No.”
“Salem.”
“A little. I have to talk to donors tonight. Like—actually talk to them. Convince them to give money to things.”
“You talk to customers every day.”
“Customers want brake pads. Donors want—I don’t know. Eloquence. A sense of purpose. Eye contact that communicates fiscal responsibility.”
“You have great eye contact.”
“I have mechanic eye contact. It communicates that I know what’s wrong with your car and you’re not going to like the estimate.”
Rowan laughed. “That’s basically the same thing. You’re just telling them something’s broken, and you know how to fix it. Which you do.”
“That’s actually not terrible advice.”
“I have my moments… Is Lucy going to be there?”
“Probably,” I said.
“And?”
“And nothing. She’s going to be there, I’m going to be there, and Ethan is going to be there. It will be fine.”
“It will be fine,” Rowan repeated. “Are you going to talk to him? Like, actually talk to him. We are way past the surface of things. It’s time.”
I watched the passing lights. “Maybe.”
She sighed with her whole body—I could hear it. “You like him.”
“Rowan—”
“You like him, and you’re getting in your own way. I need you to stop doing that.”
“I’m not—”
The car slowed. Through the window, the hotel came into view—lit up, enormous, the kind of building that had opinions about you before you walked in.
“We’re here,” I said.
“I expect a full report.”
“Looking forward to it,” I grumbled.
“Go be incredible. Text me everything.”
“Good night, Rowan.”
“Go get them.”
I hung up and sat there for a second, the city noise muffled through the glass, the hotel glittering ahead of me like a dare.
I got out of the car.
The lobby was the kind of place that made you want to stand up straighter. Marble floors. Flowers that had no business being that tall. A chandelier overhead that probably cost more than three sets of rebuilt brake calipers and a transmission job.
Laughter and music flowed from the room as I pushed through the doors. Warm light from the chandeliers fell across polished floors, catching on glass and jewelry. Everyone moved like they knew where they were supposed to be.
I found an older couple near the edge of the room. The man was reading the foundation program with focused attention. I’d spent two days doing the same thing, memorizing every initiative, every number, every name I might need.
Brake pads. Just brake pads.
“The pediatric sleep study initiative.” I stopped beside him. “That one’s newer. They added it this year.”
He looked up, and his wife turned.
“I didn’t know that,” he said.
“I didn’t either until recently. I’m Salem.
I’ve been working with the foundation this month.
” I shook his hand, then hers. “The family support piece is the part most people don’t see—it’s not just the kids, it’s keeping the whole family functional while they’re going through it.
Which sounds obvious when you say it out loud, but apparently it wasn’t being funded. ”
The man looked back at the program, then at me.
“My grandson was in the hospital for six weeks last year,” he said weakly.
Something in my chest moved. “Then you already understand it better than most people in this room.”
He nodded slowly.
We talked for seven minutes. By the end, his wife had her hand on my arm, and he was asking me who to speak to about the family support program specifically.
After, Alba materialized at my side and shoved a champagne flute into my hand before I had turned around.
“I was thinking about leaving already,” I said.
“I would’ve dragged you back in.” She looked me over once. “How are you doing?”
“I just talked a man into asking about the family support fund for seven minutes.”
Alba smiled—the real one. “I saw.”
I followed her gaze across the room before I could stop myself.
And then I saw him.
Ethan stood near the far side of the ballroom, mid-conversation with someone I didn’t recognize. Dark suit, shoulders easy, posture settled. He stood there the way he always did, completely at home in his skin.
I had spent a month standing next to this man at events, and somehow the suit was new information. This crush had spiraled out of control.
“That’s a sight,” I said.
“Mm,” Alba said. “He does well in most environments. But fancy ones”—she made a small appreciative sound—“fancy ones are something else entirely.”
Ethan shifted, his attention moving across the room. Our eyes locked, and my shoulders straightened without my permission. He approached, unhurried, like he’d been looking for where I was and had simply confirmed it.
“Hi,” he said when he reached me.
Up close, it was considerably worse. Or better. I genuinely could not tell.
“Hi,” I whispered, softer than I meant to be.
“You made it.”
“I had Rowan on speaker the whole drive here.”
“Maybe I should’ve called her too.”
He glanced at the untouched champagne in my hand. “You haven’t taken a drink yet.”
“I needed something to hold.”
“You can hold something else,” he said.
I looked up at him slowly.
He blinked. “I meant my hand. Not—I mean yes, obviously, but I didn’t mean—" He pressed his lips together. “I am doing great tonight.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you flustered. It’s cute.”
“Thank God. I was about to throw myself off that balcony.”
I laughed, and something in his expression shifted in response. He reached for my hand.
I let him.
His fingers closed around mine, and the warmth of them moved up my arm. I told myself very firmly to breathe normally, which I was doing. Mostly.
The music shifted. Slower. Lower.
I had spent most of my life treating October like something to survive. Just a few weeks ago, I had walked into a haunted house prepared to hate every second of it. Somehow, this had turned into the best October I could remember; it may have been the best one ever, which felt insane to admit.
Maybe Halloween wasn’t so terrible after all. It just needed the right company.
“Dance with me,” he said. Not a question, not quite a command. Something in between that left the choice entirely mine.
“Okay,” I said.
I found a passing tray, deposited the champagne, and let him take my hand.
He led me onto the floor, steady and unhurried, and when we turned to face each other, his hand moved to my waist—careful, deliberate—and I rested my fingers against his shoulder, and we started to move.
It was easy. It was always easy with him.
The room blurred at the edges. People drifted in and out of my peripheral vision, but none of them felt like they were in the same conversation we were having—just our bodies, the distance between us, the way he kept looking at me like I was the only fixed point in the room.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he said simply.
My heart lurched.
“Thank you,” I whispered, meaning it.
His thumb moved at my waist. Small. Barely there. Just enough that I felt it through the fabric.
“This never felt like PR. Any of it.”
I held his gaze. “Then what did it feel like?”
“Like coming up for air after a long time underwater.”
The words sat between us.
The song shifted—louder, faster, the room surging back up around us—and neither of us moved with it. We stayed where we were, slower than the music, his hand still at my waist, mine still at his shoulder, the distance between us having quietly done something while I wasn’t paying attention.
It was smaller now.
His gaze dropped to my mouth.
I became aware of every point of contact between us—his hand at my waist, my fingers curled against his suit, the warmth of him, the way his breathing had shifted from where it had been a song ago.
“I’m in trouble,” I said.
His mouth curved. “Me too.”
I didn’t move away. Neither did he. The music kept going, and so did we.