11. Skylar #2
“Something like that.” Alumni House grew larger in the windshield, its windows blazing with light. “I’d rather take the Audi. But what Brennan wants, Brennan gets.”
Cars lined the circular drive and a photographer stood at the entrance, camera at the ready.
Charlie pulled to the curb and put the car in park. His grip loosened on the steering wheel and his shoulders rolled back. The tension in his jaw smoothed out and a smile spread across his face, wide and warm.
And completely hollow.
Before her eyes he became the version of Charlie from the Dean’s office.
“Wait here.” Gone was the brightness that had been there a moment ago. “Let me come around. The photographers will want their shots.”
He climbed out, rounded the hood, and paused. Flashes exploded and cameras clicked.
“Charlie! Over here!”
“Love the car. What’s it like to drive?”
“Give us a smile!”
Charlie waved and joked with the photographers. When the rush slowed, he opened her door, shielding her from the camera’s. “Here we go.”
Skylar took his hand and stepped out of the car, squinting against the light. His arm slid around her waist, his hand pressed warm against the small of her back. He guided her up the steps, angling them both toward the cameras, the smile unwavering.
“Just keep walking,” he murmured against her ear. “It’ll be over in a minute.”
She arranged her face into what she hoped looked natural and let him lead her through the gauntlet.
Inside, Alumni House blazed with opulence. Crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings. Servers in gold vests and navy slacks circulated with champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvres. Men in suits and women in cocktail dresses clustered in groups, their laughter echoing off marble floors.
Her fingers tightened around her clutch, knuckles whitening against the dark fabric.
“Relax.” Charlie’s hand stayed at her back, steady and warm. “No one here will bite. Smile, nod, and let me do the talking.” His breath fanned warm against her temple. “If anyone asks, you’re a photojournalism major who’s thrilled to support Thorndale Athletics.”
“Am I thrilled?”
“Ecstatic.” His fingers pressed gently against her spine. “You can barely contain yourself.”
Despite everything, her mouth curved.
The next hour blurred into a parade of handshakes and introductions. Charlie knew everyone. Or everyone knew him. Alumni who’d played with his father, boosters who wanted selfies, administrators who thanked him for his father’s donations.
Across the room, Grant held a beer he didn’t seem to drink.
Wherever Charlie moved through the crush of boosters, Grant stayed a few steps behind, his attention cutting back to Charlie between every handshake of his own.
When a heavyset man in a Titans blazer trapped Charlie in a conversation that had clearly run its course, Grant crossed the floor, clapped the man on the back, and folded him into a different group.
Charlie’s shoulders eased a fraction before the performance smoothed back into place.
Grant caught Skylar’s eye and tipped his chin at her before he moved back into the crowd.
Through it all, his hand never left her back, warm and grounding.
But Skylar tracked every micro-expression, every shift in posture.
The smile didn’t slip. The charm unfaltering. He laughed at jokes that weren’t funny and accepted compliments he didn’t believe and played the golden boy like he’d practiced the role for years.
He had. She was sure of it now.
“Charlie Carnell.” A silver-haired man with the Titans crest on his navy blazer pumped Charlie’s hand. “Good to see you, son. How’s the arm feeling?”
“Strong as ever, Mr. Patterson.” Charlie’s smile was bright and confident. “We’re looking good for the game on Saturday.”
“That’s what I like to hear. Your father must be proud.”
Charlie’s smile widened. “He’s very supportive.” He stepped closer to Skylar. “Can I introduce you to Skylar Hartley? She’s the one making me look good in all those photos.”
The attention shifted to her. Skylar smiled until her face ached, answered questions about her major and her hometown, deflected comments about how lucky she was to be paired with such a catch.
When Mr. Patterson finally wandered off, Charlie exhaled slowly. His face stayed pleasant, but the light behind his eyes flickered out.
They moved through two more clusters of donors. Then three. Then four. Each conversation identical. The same questions. The same compliments. The same performance.
Skylar’s feet ached. But the pain didn’t compare to watching the light drain from Charlie’s eyes by degrees.
Finally, during a gap between handshakes, she made her move. “Come with me.”
She didn’t wait for an answer. Just grabbed his hand and pulled him toward a door. Down a hallway lined with oil paintings of stern-faced men in academic robes.
“Skylar, what—”
“Shh.”
She tried one door. Locked. Another. A storage closet. The third opened into a small office, dark except for the light spilling through a window.
She pulled him inside and shut the door.
For a moment, they just stood there. Breathing. The noise of the party muffled to a distant hum.
“What are we doing?”
“You needed a break.” Skylar leaned against the desk. His fingers were still laced through hers. She looked down at their joined hands, then back up at him.
She didn’t let go.
“Yeah.” The word barely carried across the space between them. “I do.”
On the other side of the wall the party went on without him, and for a few minutes nobody in here needed him to be anything. His thumb traced once over her knuckles.
“You’re good at it,” she said. “The handshakes. The charm. Whatever Mr. Patterson wanted you to be, you handed it over before he finished asking.”
“Years of practice.” A short laugh escaped him.
“They don’t let up out there,” she sighed. “Two hours of getting passed from one handshake to the next, everybody wanting their minute.”
“Comes with the name.”
“Maybe. Doesn’t mean it’s free.”
He went still, the same wariness that had crossed his face when he’d found her mother’s photos on the desk.
She tilted her head. “You hand all of them exactly what they came for. I figured somebody should give you five minutes back.”
He stared at her. The pause stretched a beat too long, and whatever he’d been about to deflect with didn’t arrive.
“People don’t usually...” He stopped. Started again. “Most people want the version of me that’s useful to them.”
She held his gaze. “I didn’t drag you past a hallway of glaring portraits to be useful.”
The corner of his mouth lifted, and the lift kept going this time, unhurried, nothing held back in it. “Keep reading me that closely and you’ll turn up things I’ve spent a long time hiding.”
The air between them thickened, his hand radiating heat against her palm. His eyes had gone dark in the low light, fixed on her face.
Charlie’s free hand rose. His fingers brushed her jaw, feather-light.
“Skylar . . .”
A burst of laughter from the hallway shattered the moment. They jerked apart, hands separating.
“We should get back,” Skylar managed. Her heart hammered against her ribs. “Before someone notices we’re gone.”
“Right.” Charlie ran a hand through his hair, disrupting the careful styling. “Right. Yeah.”
They slipped back into the hallway and walked toward the noise and the light. By the time they reached the main room, Charlie’s mask was back in place.
But his eyes found hers, just for a second. The blue glittering in the golden room.
Then the crowd swallowed them whole.