Seven
KYLE
The two-hour flight to New York City should feel like the longest I’ve had in a while, and in some ways, it does. My mind is racing with thoughts of the gala, the endless introductions, the suits, the celebrities, the cameras. I can already feel the weight of it all pressing down on me. But then I glance over at her, and everything else fades into the background.
She’s finally relaxing, her shoulders easing, a soft giggle escaping her lips as she sips from her champagne flute. For the first time in what feels like forever, I see her letting go. The private jet, with its luxurious leather seats, polished wood paneling, and all the amenities a large publishing house can afford, isn’t just a means of getting to the next place. It’s a rare chance for us to steal a moment of peace together.
Her laughter dances in the air, as bright and unrestrained as it ever was, and it pulls me in. I don’t care about the gala, the business, or any of the chaos that awaits us in New York City. Right now, all that matters is her.
I glance over at her, already making her move. She’s grinning at the speaker system, fingers hovering over the controls. “Let’s do this,” she says, a playful gleam in her eye.
Before I can even reply, she syncs her phone to the speakers, and suddenly, the smooth rhythm of an upbeat song fills the cabin. Without missing a beat, she stands up, her hair swaying as she starts dancing, a burst of energy and joy.
“Come on!” she laughs, extending a hand to me. “Don’t be a buzzkill.”
I shake my head, unable to suppress the smile tugging at my lips. I might’ve been the one to write books full of tension and danger, but she—she is my adventure. Without thinking twice, I stand and pull her into my arms, and for a moment, we’re not billionaire author and small-town girl, not star-studded gala attendees. We’re just us, lost in our own little world.
We sway together, laughing out loud, her head resting against my chest. The champagne is doing its job, loosening us both up, and it’s hard to remember that we’re about to walk into a room full of flashing lights and high-profile guests. She spins, pulling me with her, our movements as clumsy as they are carefree. The only thing that matters right now is the way she looks at me, the way she feels in my arms, the sound of her laughter echoing in the tiny cabin of our jet.
“I could get used to this,” she says, breathless, a smile spread across her face.
I pull her close again, brushing a kiss against her forehead. “Me too,” I whisper, and for the first time today, I truly mean it. Whatever awaits us in New York, it’s nothing compared to this moment, this love, this us.
Two hours later, our second limo ride of the night stops in front of the history museum, and the grand entrance to the gala. The flashing lights of the cameras hit us immediately, and I feel Elodie tense beside me. She’s clinging to my arm in a way that makes something primal and fierce inside me rise. I didn’t want a date who’d hang onto me all night. I didn’t want a clinger or someone pretending to be impressed. But with Elodie, it’s different.
She’s not trying to impress anyone. She’s just here with me, and I want to keep her close. I never knew I needed someone like her until now.
I squeeze her hand gently. “It’s okay,” I say, my voice low. “Just be you. And let’s have fun.”
Her eyes meet mine, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “Let’s do this.” she whispers.
We step out of the limo, and the flashing lights hit us from every angle. It’s overwhelming, but she’s steady by my side, leaning in close like she trusts me to guide her through it.
I lead her inside, giving the usual polite smiles and waves, stopping briefly to speak with a few people in the crowd. Elodie keeps close, her fingers curled around my arm, her body language telling me that, as much as she tries to seem composed, she’s still nervous. I want to pull her away from it all, hide us somewhere quiet where the world doesn’t feel so loud, but I can’t do that. Not tonight.
“Let’s grab a drink,” I suggest, pulling her gently toward the bar. I order a couple of champagne flutes, and the bartender hands us the glasses, her smile a little warmer than I’m used to. Elodie takes hers with quiet thanks, her fingers trembling slightly as she raises the glass to her lips.
“This is crazy.” she says looking around, her voice barely audible over the chatter and music around us.
I take a sip of my own drink, eyes scanning the room. There’s a sea of people, all dressed to the nines, their chatter blending into a cacophony of superficial conversation. I hate it, but I can’t ignore the fact that I’m here, too, my books, my fame, my name in all the right places.
But Elodie? She’s not here for that. She’s here for me, and I can’t get over how rare that feels.
We mingle, make our rounds, introducing her to a few people, letting her get comfortable with the environment. There’s a lot of small talk, and I’m constantly aware of the way her gaze flickers nervously from one person to the next, as though she’s trying to make sense of this world. But she’s holding her own. I can tell.
The band strikes up a slow waltz, and I glance over at her. She’s staring at the dance floor, her lips parted slightly, as though she’s debating whether or not to take the plunge.
“Dance with me,” I say, my voice a low murmur as I step closer to her, offering my hand.
She hesitates for a second before she nods, her smile warming me. “Okay.”
My fingers brush her waist as I guide her to the center of the floor. The music begins to flow around us, slow and sweeping, and I feel the warmth of her body against mine as we move together.
The waltz is easy, like breathing. My hand on her back, my other hand clasped in hers, and her body fitting perfectly against mine. We glide, steady, in sync with each other, the world blurring around us.
It’s just her and me. Nothing else matters.
We stop for a moment, and I’m about to say something when I spot Lina in the crowd, waving me over. She looks frantic, probably worried about the next round of interviews or whatever business comes with this whole thing.
“My publicist and editor are waving for me,” I say, leaning down to kiss her cheek. I should introduce her to Lina, but I don’t want to share Elodie just yet.
Elodie nods, “Go, I’ll… powder my nose and meet you at the bar.”
“Make it quick.” I tell Lina, “I left Elodie alone out there.”
Lina pouts, “What? No introduction?”
“Lina.” I say, practically growling in annoyance, but she gets it. We have no time to waste, and she gets to the point telling me who I need to talk to tonight. She lectures me about not staying overnight in the city for meetings tomorrow. When I finally break away from Lina and make my way back to the sea of people near the dance floor, I frantically scan the crowd to find Elodie.
And then I spot her, standing at the bar, talking animatedly with a man and a woman. She’s laughing, her hand in the air as she gestures excitedly, familiar, relaxed, like she’s truly enjoying herself. But the moment I see the man’s hand resting just a little too casually on her shoulder, something stirs inside me. A possessive, protective feeling I didn’t know I had.
I cut through the crowd, making my way toward her. The jealousy hits me hard, and I don’t like it.
“Elodie,” I say, slipping my arm around her waist and pulling her close, letting her know, without a doubt, that she’s mine.
She looks up at me, her face lighting up when she sees me. “Kyle! This is Maria Dutton,” she says, introducing me to a woman whose name I recognize. She’s a famous romance author.
Elodie’s fangirling a little, her eyes shining with admiration. It’s a look I haven’t seen from her and despite myself I am jealous as fuck. But as I watch her, my chest tightens. That possessive streak of mine flares up again, and it surprises me. The jealousy? It’s almost... irrational.
“I’m a huge fan of your books!” Elodie says, her voice filled with excitement. “I’ve read everything you’ve written; your characters are so real!”
Maria laughs clearly flattered. “Thank you, dear. It is quite fun.”
I don’t like how the guy standing next to Elodie is still looking at her. Something about it feels off. Like he’s too interested, too... involved .
I lean in closer, wrapping my arm around Elodie’s waist even tighter, and I feel her body stiffen a little in response. She looks up at me, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
“Mrs. Dutton, if you’ll excuse us, I need to speak with my girlfriend.”
“Certainly Mr. Kingston.” We shake hands and Mrs. Dutton and her companion turn and leave.
“Kyle?” Elodie asks, a little uncertain. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I say, a little too quickly. “Just... I don’t like the way he’s looking at you.”
Her eyes widen. “Mr. Kingston, are you jealous?”
I smirk, my grip on her waist not loosening. “Maybe. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure no one tries to take what’s mine.”
Her lips curl into a teasing smile, but she doesn’t pull away. And for the first time tonight, I realize how much I want her to stay close. How much I want this to be real.
She’s mine. And no one is going to change that.