Chapter 26 #2
Margot rolls her eyes, though it doesn’t seem to be from genuine irritation. She exhales softly. “Fine. But only because I’m not trying to get into an Uber in this dress.”
“Fair enough,” Grant says.
For a moment neither of them moves.
Then he gestures toward the bar. “Come on. Let me get you a drink before I play chauffeur.”
They head off toward the open bar, and I turn to Micah with a grin. “Tell me they don’t look exactly like Barbie and Ken. She’s even wearing pink.”
Micah watches them go, then shakes his head. “On the outside, maybe,” he says. “But let’s hope nothing happens.”
“Did something happen between them?” I ask, genuinely curious. “She seems so lovely and down to earth.”
He sighs. “It’s messy. Trust me—you don’t want to know.”
Micah introduces me to people as we approach them, though most of them are the ones approaching him.
“Micah, so good to see you, son,” comes a deep, resonant voice.
I turn—and nearly forget how to function.
Judge Lawrence Wynn, in the flesh. I try to play it cool, but inside I’m full-blown fangirling.
I’ve written papers on his rulings, dissected his opinions in study groups, even quoted him in essays in the past. He’s a legend.
And now he’s standing a few feet away—tall, broad-shouldered, silver at the temples, with the same mesmerizing hazel eyes as Wyatt.
His presence is magnetic, almost cinematic.
“Sir, it’s so nice to see you again,” Micah says, shaking his hand. “This is my girlfriend, Sophie Lennox. She goes to school with Wyatt and me.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Sophie,” Judge Wynn says, and his voice is somehow even more hypnotizing in person.
“Good morning—I mean evening—Judge—Your Honor—sir—Mr. Wynn?” I stammer, already dying inside. “Sorry, I’m just such a fan. You’re a huge inspiration, I—”
“She’s on the same track as Wyatt,” Micah cuts in smoothly, saving me from spontaneous combustion.
“Ah, well, please let me know if you ever need a letter of recommendation—or anything at all,” he says warmly. “I’d be happy to help any friend of Wyatt’s.”
“Thank you so much. I’ll definitely keep that in mind,” I say, trying to sound like a person and not a malfunctioning robot.
“Speaking of, where’s Wyatt?” he asks Micah. “I was told he’d be here tonight.”
“He said he had to study for a midterm tomorrow.”
“I see. I’ll see you both around,” he says, before disappearing into the crowd.
I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for an hour. “That was intense. He’s so nice. And handsome. I mean, I’ve seen him online but in person? Wow. I see where Wyatt gets his looks from.”
Micah smirks. “I can’t believe I’m getting jealous of my best friend’s father.”
I'm halfway back from the bathroom when the voices stop me. Two women, somewhere around the corner, their voices pitched low. I find myself slowing down to listen, which I immediately realize is a mistake.
“Did you see Micah Vale’s date?”
“I did. She’s pretty, I suppose. But you know how these things go.”
“Oh, it won’t last. He’s a Vale. There’s been talk of a match with the Whitmore girl for years. Everyone’s expecting an announcement before the spring.”
I freeze.
Of course they’d say that. I’d say that too, if I were them.
“She’s just not what I imagined,” one adds with a small, amused laugh.
A voice interrupts—smooth, loud enough to be heard. “Funny, I heard he’s getting married to her.”
The women turn.
Grant leans casually against the wall with a crooked grin. “Apparently it’s pretty serious.” He catches my eye and gives me a wink. “I heard they already moved in together.”
The women excuse themselves quickly, but Grant follows, matching their pace, filling them in on venue details for a wedding that exists entirely in his head.
Part of me wants to laugh, but the ache underneath it wins.
Micah finds me a few moments later, before I can spiral too far into it.
“There you are,” he says, instantly placing his hand back on my waist like he can feel the shakiness under my skin. He sees it—whatever’s on my face.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say, but it’s too quiet to be convincing. “I’m just not sure if I belong in a place like this.”
His brows pull together, and he tilts his head like he’s trying to make sense of a sentence that doesn’t compute. “That’s nonsense,” he says, voice low. “You’re the most beautiful person here.”
I look down, cheeks heating, but he lifts my chin.
“I mean it,” he says. “I’ve introduced you to dozens of people tonight. Every single one of them saw you, and they know this won’t be the last time.”
I lean up and press a kiss to his cheek. He turns slightly, catching my face in his hands, and looks at me.
“Come with me,” he says quietly.
We move through the hallways quickly, past closed doors and candlelit corners until one finally opens. A closet—dim, quiet, and tucked away from everything. He pulls me inside, shuts the door, and locks it.
For a moment we just stand there in the dark, close enough that I can feel the warmth coming off him, the soft sound of the gala muffled behind the door like it belongs to a different world.
Then he kisses me slowly, like he's been saving it. His hands delicately cup my face. His thumbs brush along my jaw, and the tenderness of it does something to my chest that the grandeur of this entire evening hasn't.
“Your world is so different than mine,” I start, against his mouth.
“It’s not my world,” he says. “It’s all fake.”
“Micah—“
“Every single person here has an agenda.” He pulls back just enough to look at me, and even in the dark his gray eyes are clear. “I should too. But I’ve been too distracted all night.”
“By what?”
“What do you think, Sophie?” he says, slipping down one shoulder strap of my dress. His thumb traces my cheekbone, light as a question. “Do you trust me?”
I think about how many times I've asked myself that. How carefully I've turned it over, looking for the catch.
“Yes,” I say. And I mean it completely.
He kisses me again, deeper this time, one hand sliding to the small of my back and drawing me in until there's no space left between us.
I feel the solid warmth of him, the quiet certainty of his arms around me, and I stop hearing the voices from the hallway.
I stop calculating whether I belong here or not.
“Lift your dress, babe,” he says, his voice low. “That’s my agenda.”
“This dress is too expensive, Micah. I’m not going to risk ruining it.” I press my forehead to his shoulder, and he rests his chin on top of my head.
For a moment we just breathe. He presses a kiss to my forehead and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and his hand rests gently at my waist.
When we finally break apart, both a little breathless, I laugh softly—because I'm standing in a closet at a black-tie gala in a white satin gown and diamond earrings, and I've never felt more like myself.
“Let's get out of here,” he murmurs. “We need to get that dress off immediately.”
I nod, my heart so full and warm. “Okay,” I say. “Let's go.”