Page 173 of Can't Always Get What You Want

I’m too hot.

In fact, I may pass out from this shapewear.

It’s squishing and squeezing me and sucking me in—but also sucking the actual life out of me.

The ESPYs are glamorous on television. In real life, they’re a sea of overdone spray tans, ankle-bleeding stilettos, and conversations that sound like podcasts no one asked for. Everyone’s pretending to know each other. Everyone’s networking. Everyone’s hungry—mostly because nobody’s eaten since breakfast and the only available food is passed around on trays.

I don’t belong here.

And my bladder has decided now is the perfect time to betray me.

“Be right back,” I whisper to my brother, not that he hears me. It’s a miracle he notices I’m still here, wrapped up in some conversation with some dude that’s been kissing his ass all night.

I rise, holding tight to my tiny, impractical clutch and start the long, awkward shuffle toward the lobby restrooms, trying not to make eye contact with anyone important or trip over the hem of my dress and create a scene during the In Memoriam montage.

Shove open the heavy doors.

The lobby is cooler, thank God. The air conditioning actually works out here.

Awww.

Relief.

The hallway is lined with dramatic lighting and velvet ropes, because apparently, evenpeeingneeds a red carpet.

That’s when I see him.

He’s leaning against the wall, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of something that looks suspiciously non-alcoholic but still makes him look sexy as hell. He’s talking to someone I don’t recognize and laughing at something I probably wouldn’t find funny.

When he glances up andsees me?

He does a double take. Stops speaking.

Of course he does.

My dress is fire-engine red.

Our eyes meet for maybe half a second. Maybe less.

Long enough for my pulse to spike.

I drop my gaze like it burned me, adjusting the strap of my purse like it needs attention, likehedidn’t just look at me like I’d ruined his concentration.

I keep walking.

One foot in front of the other. Smooth. Controlled. Totally unaffected.

Except I can feel him watching me, heat crawling up the back of my neck like it has a destination.

“Hello,” he says politely. “Good evening.”

His voice is low. Calm.

“Good evening,” I echo, sizing him up.

His eyes soften. “Didn’t mean to stop you. Looked like you were on a mission.”

“I am,” I say, tightening my grip on my clutch. “A mission that involves Spanx and the women’s restroom.”

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