Page 72 of Passenger Princess

I shouldn't have done it, taking her hand and pulling her to the dance floor, not when she's been pushing my buttons since I got back from my run, not when she's wearing that dress that has me fighting a hard-on all night. But I did, some ghost taking over my body when she offered to dance with Beckett.

That same phantom that made me lift her, press her against a wall, and kiss her just days ago. The one that made me buy her ice cream when I should have been doing everything in my power to convince her I wasn’t into her. The one that had me buying cat toys and iced coffees before dawn the exact way she likes it, and books for her to read in the car.

I'm losing my fucking mind.

She's right. I can't keep dragging her along, sending mixed messages incessantly when hers are crystal clear.

But the question is, do I have the guts to take her as mine? And ifI don't, do I have the stomach to stand back while she moves on with someone else?

The answer is clear, and it has my feet moving with a new wind back toward the party.

Ava is mine, and it's time she finds out exactly what that means to me. That's when I hear a familiar woman’s voice speaking.

“You need to calm down,” the woman’s voice says.

“I can’t calm down becauseI'm getting fucked,Regina!” a woman responds with a shriek. “She’s wearingmy crown!And every day people ask me all these questions, and more articles are calling her the people's princess like she's fuckingDiana!That’s supposed to be me, Regina! If you don’t fix this, I’m going to have to tell everyone?—”

A slap rings in the hall, followed by a whimper that sounds like Anne. Did Regina just hit her?

“You stop your fucking whining. I’m tired of it. You stirring the pot and making her want to stay to prove you wrongisn’thelping. You’re making things more difficult, Anne. Keep doing what you’re doing, and things will be fine. We just need to be patient.” A door opens, and the sound of the party fills the space and drowns out the conversation I'm trying to listen to before it closes, leaving it quiet once again. “But right now, you need to go to the bathroom, clean your fucking face, and play the game. You’ll be Miss Americana sooner than later, but not if you look like shit.” Then heels click away down the hall.

So much just happened, but I can only think of one thing.

Ava.

Ava, Ava, Ava.

I need to get to Ava because something about that is wrong. And because I just need to be by her, talk to her, and fix this mess I made.

Stepping back into the ballroom, my eyes move to our table, and my blood goes cold. Ava is perched on the edge of the white tablecloth, head tipped back, turned toward Wes. His hand is on the table right next to her hip, skin revealed by the dress's high slit, nottouching but close enough. Her feet kick as she giggles, and Wes's face is tipped up with a smile playing on his lips.

He's enchanted, the way everyone feels around Ava.

They look like they belong. They look like a couple having a great fucking time like they’ve been together for some time.

Comfortable.

Too fucking comfortable.

Her hand moves, pushing his shoulder as she laughs, and he grabs her wrist, stopping her from slipping off the edge of the table, and I have no clue what happens.

Something in me snaps, and I’m moving—nearly running—people stepping back as I walk quickly past them with no apologies until I’m at our table, grabbing her hand, putting a hand to her waist, and sliding her off the table.

“Come on,” I say once her heels are steady on the floor—those high heels that I’ve thought about having digging into my back all fucking night.

“Jaime—”

“We’re heading out,” I say, putting a hand to her elbow and grabbing the small pink bag Wes hands me with a smug smile.

“Jaime—”

“Do not argue with me, Princess,” I say under my breath.

“What the fuck was that, Jaime?” she shouts once we're out of the ballroom, following me as I keep a tight hold on her hand, leading her toward the elevators.

“Me? What the fuck wasthat, Ava?”

“What waswhat?!”

---