Page 174 of Can't Always Get What You Want

That earns me a smile. Small, amused, and somehow not condescending. “Say no more.”

I nod.

And honestly, I would stop to chat—but I have to pee like a racehorse and if I don’t keep going, I may pee my pants. Lord knows it’s going to take me a full minute to get out of these shapewear contraptions, which are torture.

My heels click against the tile as I disappear into the women’s restroom, the heavy door swinging closed behind me; I let out a breath, gripping the cool edge of the marble counter as I stare at my reflection in the mirror.

What the hell wasthat?

I lift my gaze and study my reflection.

Cheeks flushed. Eyes wide. Lip gloss intact.

I look startled?

“Get it together. He wasn’t even flirting!” I dab at my skin with a thin rice sheet from my purse, watching through the mirror for anyone who may come out of a bathroom stall.

I’m shiny and slightly sweaty.

Ew.

I chuck the rice sheet into the trash, take one more steadying breath, and march into the toilet stall. Pee.

Struggle to breathe.

Pee more.

Then begin the battle of the dress. It takes a full ninety seconds and two awkward squats to wrestle the fabric back into place.

“Whoever designed this thing must havehatedwomen.” I struggle to pull my dress down and back into place.

“Okay,” I whisper to my reflection. “Act normal.”

And then I pull open the door.

The second I step into the hallway, my eyes snag on the same spot I left him—and yep.

He’s still there.

Leaning against the opposite wall, he’s alone this time. Phone in hand, his thumb seems to be scrolling over the screen as if he were killing time and doesn’t want to return to the ballroom, either.

Our eyes meet again, and for half a second, neither of us moves.

Then he straightens. “Everything go okay?”

“Uh—yes. Very successful. Thanks for asking,” I say a bit too brightly.Thanks? Was that a stupid thing to say?

Ugh!

“I’m not lurking out here to be a creep.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “I needed a breather.”

I nod. “Same.”

Another beat.

And then, like he suddenly realizes something: “I’m Luca, by the way.”

I know. I take his hand—firm grip, warm palm, a little rough—and offer a small, polite nod.

---