Page 43 of Love Me Tomorrow

Either way, letting it go into someone else’s hands tonight is going to steal a piece of my soul. I’m choosing to look at it as a cathartic experience that might leave an impact on someone else, even if that someone else is the mayor of New Orleans.

Plus, memories are meant to carry you forward, but certain ones . . . all they do is shackle you in place.

And I’ve already had enough shackles in my life.

“Not bullshit.” I set the book down on the table, letting the weight fall as it will. When the pages flutter open to a penciled sketch of Savannah standing in front of thePut A Ring On Itmansion, her expression weighted with dread, I immediately flip to another. She sure as hell doesn’t need to see that and I sure as hell don’t need to relive that night anytime soon. I glance at her over my shoulder. “How’d your dad take to me sayin’ no to the hotel?”

The tension in her shoulders go slack. “Not great.”

“Y’all still going forward with it, then?”

“As if my dad would have it any other way.” Demurely, she clasps one hand around her opposite wrist. Then, as if realizing how bitter she sounds, she forces a tight grin that I see right through. “We have a projected opening date, so long as everything goes according to plan from here on out. It’ll be an exciting venture—a break from the restaurants, that’s for sure.”

I step away from the auction table. “An exciting venture?” I repeat, huffing out a sarcastic laugh beneath my breath. “Who are you trying to convince of that? Me? You? Or your old man?”

“Owen.”

“You ever going to tell him that you’re miserable?”

Her eyes pop open wide, head jerking right then left as she catalogs the people standing near us. No one is paying any attention, but that doesn’t stop her from hissing, “Not here.”

“Everyone’s drunk, Rose. You could start doing jumping jacks in that dress of yours and no one would bat an eye.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Which part? The fact that they’re plastered or the fact that you could do something completely bizarre and no one would stop drinking to even applaud you?”

“Have you seen me exercise? No one would applaud me, even if they were stone cold sober.” Her brows furrow. “Plus, hypothetically speaking, I’m pretty sure that if I were to evenattempta jumping jack in this thing, I’d risk flashing the mayor, my parents, and—”

“Me,” I interject with a slow grin, “you’d also risk flashing me.”

Her gaze leaps to my face. “Reason number one right there as to why I should refrain from working out for the rest of my life.”

I don’t rise to the bait.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist (which I’m definitely not) to see that Savannah is feeling out of her depths here. The nice-guy thing to do would be to step back and let her carry on with her night without inserting myself into her business, but I’m not always a nice guy.

Maybe it makes me a masochist, but I’ve spent the last two hours wondering what it would be like to hold Savannah in my arms. Dance with her like every other couple taking to the floor. Feel her hand willingly clasped in mine, our steps in sync. Learn the shape of her body, even if it’s with our clothes on and hundreds of people carousing around us.

It won’t be enough.

Doesn’t matter if it isn’t. If it is.

She’s made her stance on our relationship crystal clear and I’m not going to push her for what she won’t readily give, but a dance . . . nothing terribly illicit about that.

Savannah reaches up to tug on one earring. “Do I have something on my face? You’re staring.”

Screw it.Here goes nothing.

“Dance with me.”

Her mouth gapes open.“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I heard you, but that—” She breaks off, her gaze sliding past me. “My dad is here, Owen. He’ll see us.”

“Is this where I’m supposed to break down in tears because I’m scared?” I cup her elbow, dropping my head so that we’re eye to eye. Savannah Rose has always been a runner, but when I force myself into her vision like this, she can’t retreat. My dad taught me that: fight or keep fighting. Not much of a choice when he put it that way. It’s the only way to survive. Lowering my voice, I continue blithely, “Because I’ve got to tell you, I’m a shit actor. You want me to shed some tears, you’re going to have to—”

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