Page 153 of Unexpected Hero

No, that’s not right. Not on me, but through me.

The intensity of his gaze obliterates my skin, revealing the chaotic emotions permanently residing beneath the surface.

Vivid memories of the pain in his eyes the last time I saw him — pain I put there — make it challenging for me to finish my little safety speech.

“Are we good to go?” the petite woman named Helen prompts after I stumble over my spiel for the fourth time.

Shit ass.

I force a smile at her and wave my open palm toward the entrance to the main room. “Yeah. All set. Have a nice time. Be safe.”

The couple doesn’t make a move to enter, remaining planted in front of the desk. Awkwardly, I motion toward the entrance to the main room.

The man with her, Andy, points his chin at my desk. “Can we have our club IDs back?”

“Oh. Shoot. I’m so sorry.”

I scramble to pick them up, dropping them both in the process. Naturally. “Sorry again.”

Stooping to my knee, I retrieve both cards from the floor. In accordance with the Violet Holt Charter, Sections 2-10, I bang the back of my head on the desk when I attempt to stand.

“Oof! Doggone it to hell,” I hiss. The pain makes the room tilt and spin.

“You okay, honey?” Helen asks, leaning over the desk.

Laughing nervously, I rub my head as I stand — successfully this time. “Yep. I’m fine. It’s just me being me. Graceful as a baby panda walkin’ on a frozen pond.”

With a snicker, Helen consoles me jokingly. “You poor thing. But don’t worry. You’re pretty enough to be a giant klutz.”

I laugh with her as I extend my hand, returning their cards.

Andy takes both cards and begins shoving her toward the club entrance. “Ignore her. She’s in a mood after finding out she has the same hairdresser as Jaden Smith.”

She swats him in the gut. “Hey, that was a secret. No head for you tonight.”

As they walk off, Andy says, “Come on, little woman. Sit on my face and let me eat my way to your heart.”

My cheeks flame over his joke, but it intensifies when I realize I’m alone in the lobby with James. When I force myself to face him, his expression conceals all traces of emotion.

I stop rubbing the latest bump on my head and fake a smile. “Hi, James.”

“Hey.”

He stays across the room as if his feet have grown roots.

I’m surprised he isn’t hovering over me, checking my head, and waving a light in my eyes to check for a brain injury. Guess he’s no longer concerned about my safety and well-being, which makes sense considering I called him trash.

Why did I do that? I swear, my elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top floor.

When the tense silence barges into uncomfortable territory, I gesture toward the door with an open hand. “You can go in. I don’t need to check your credentials.”

“I’m not here for that.”

Hope? Is that you dancing around in my stomach like a hippo wearing a tutu?

Pay attention, friends. My response will be articulate as fuck.

“Oh?” I squeak.

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