Page 33 of Until

"Let's get out of here," I say.

She takes my hand, and in one swift movement, I shift to her side so that my one hand is protectively at her waist, guiding her, while my other hand continues to lead her out of the chaos while holding her hand.

She presses her body close to mine, possibly for warmth or security. It doesn't matter to me why she's doing it; I'm happy to be both for her.

I need to get her somewhere she will feel safe—somewhere without all of these cameras and all of these other people, somewhere we can talk and get to know each other better.

I lead her out of the crowd, back the way I came. Once we’re away from the pulsating music, the din of people speaking over each other, and the flashes of the cameras, I stop and turn to her.

"I've spent the past month trying to find you," I say.

She smiles, then shyly looks away. ”Well, here I am. But shouldn't we go inside?"

"Only if you want to. I’ve already found what I came here for."

She turns and looks back at the crowd and the flashing lights. Her arms go up and wrap around herself, and she begins to pet her jacket again.

"It really is a lot," she says. "It seems like a lot more than last time."

"I agree. How about we go someplace quiet?”

She nods. “That sounds great.”

“Have you eaten? Because I haven't. I could go for a good burger. How's that sound?"

Her face lights up.

"That sounds great. I just need to be back here by midnight.”

“For your fairy godfather?”

She tilts her head, looking confused, then laughs.

“I can’t believe you remember that.”

“When it comes to you, I’ll remember everything.”

She smiles and then looks away again. I lift her chin and look directly into her eyes.

“I mean it.”

“Okay,” she whispers.

“I can get you back here before midnight. I have the perfect place in mind."

I help her into my car, careful not to catch her dress in the door. Then I drive to a diner in the other part of town, one where no one will notice Ryan Stirling, the billionaire.

The old diner is one of those small chrome buildings that resemble an old train car. When I was a kid, my family would go to it for after-school events. It hasn't changed in all these years.

We park in the empty parking lot and then walk up to the dimly lit door. A bell chimes as I hold the door open for her.

Rocky, the owner and chef, bursts out of the kitchen. He’s built like a tiny tank and moves like a bull in a china shop. He’s wearing a dingy apron that’s probably as old as the diner. The only hair on his head is that of a white goatee. He wipes his hands on a white towel he hangs from the apron strings wrapped around his waist.

Without looking up at us, he grabs a couple of menus and walks out from behind the counter. I remove my mask and slip it into my suit jacket pocket.

"Sit wherever ya want,” he mumbles.

I clear my throat, and Rocky shoots an annoyed look in my direction. Slowly, his eyes widen, and his jaw drops.

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