Page 48 of Houston, We Have a Problem
I cringe at the voice that is way too close for comfort, turning my head just enough to see the face of the fifty-something man standing over me. Malcolm Callahan looks even creepier than he does on TV, though I’m glad to see I wasn’t exaggerating the football announcer’s roving eyes when I decided I didn’t like him a year ago. Connor tried to get me to do a TV spot with him once, and I put my foot down. No woman should have to be in the same room as a guy like this, one who is currently undressing me with his gaze. He’s not even trying to hide it.
“I’m not doing this with you, Callahan,” I say sharply, turning back to my phone.
Me: I think I’m set. Talk tomorrow?
“What are you drinking, beautiful?” Callahan reaches over my shoulder and picks up my glass, bringing it to his nose with a sniff. He’s so close that his hot armpit cups my shoulder, sending a shudder through me. “Playing it safe tonight, Park?”
I slip off my stool, my balance wavering as I take a step. The room feels too hot, the music muted as a buzzing fills myears. Why am I reacting this way? I’ve dealt with dozens of men like Callahan. They all think they are God’s gift to women and that because I wear makeup and pretty dresses, I am asking for their attention. I can take care of myself, and I’m not afraid to throw a punch if the situation calls for it.
But when Callahan slides his hand down my arm and takes hold of my wrist, my body malfunctions, freezing me in place instead of letting me run. I can’t breathe. I want to scream but I just stand there and shut my eyes tight as he moves back in, pressing his nose into my neck from behind and breathing in deep while his other hand finds my waist and starts roving.Stop. Please. STOP!
“I think it’s time to leave the lady alone,” a voice says, and cool relief washes over me.
“Houston,” I gasp. Something clicks back into place, and I scurry out of Callahan’s reach. I don’t mean to dart directly into Houston’s arms—or maybe I do—but I love the way he barely touches me as he wraps an arm around my back, like he’s telling me he’s there only if I need him.
“How about you wait your turn?” Callahan snaps.
Houston looks ready to snap too, but in a completely different way. Where he’s always been pretty relaxed, now he stands tense and poised to strike. Even when dealing with Tamlin in the past, he’s never been this rigid. A fire burns in his eyes that says in no uncertain terms he is more than willing to throw hands if it comes to it. “You’re drunk, Callahan. Night’s over for you.”
“It’s over when I say it’s over.”
The safety I feel standing with Houston is heady and almost overwhelming, but the last thing either of us needs is a fight happening in the middle of a black-tie gala. That’s not a story I want Connor to have.
Twisting to face Houston, I grip his lapels and pull myself just close enough to draw his attention. “Dance with me, Briggs.”
He blinks, glancing at me. “What?”
“Dance. We don’t need to make a scene.”
I can see the thoughts running through his head as if they’re playing out as subtitles above him. He’s doing nothing to hide his expressions, still mostly focused on Callahan.I absolutely need to make a scene. Wait, did you say dance? Why can’t I make a scene? I don’t want to dance.Pleaselet me make a scene.
“You are being ridiculous,” I hiss. “Come on.”
Grabbing his arm, I drag him to the dance floor with no small effort. Every step helps me relax, but it does nothing for Houston, who is so stiff that he doesn’t seem to notice when I wrap my arms around his neck.
I never took Houston for the violent type, but he holds his hands in fists at his sides.
“Hands on my waist, Briggs.”
Miraculously, he does as he’s told.
“Why would you do that?”
He scoffs. “Malcolm Callahan is a slimy perv who shouldn’t be allowed to breathe the same air as—”
“I know. But you hate me.”
“I don’t…hate you.” His response, faltering and thin, seems to surprise him as much as it surprises me. It’s at this point that he realizes we’ve been swaying for the last several seconds, and all of his tension shifts from anger to shock. His blue eyes go wide, and when his hands tighten reflexively around my waist, my breath hitches. I’ve been within seconds of kissing this man, but I’ve never beenthisclose to him.
I try to ease the tension by giving him a Tamlin smirk. “It’s okay if you hate me, Briggs. We don’t have to be friends. But thank you.”
“Why didn’t you punch him in the nose? Or run away? Don’t tell me you were interested in—”
“I couldn’t.” I hate that my voice comes out so small, but it pretty much reflects how I feel. Callahan and I are basically equals, even if he’s more regularly on TV. To know he saw me as nothing more than a set of curves makes me nauseous, and my knees nearly give out. I’m used to being stared at, but no one has ever touched me like he did, with no regard for my personal boundaries. No one has ever actually crossed the line.
Houston’s hold tightens around me, offering support whether or not he knows how much I need it. “Are you okay?”
Those three words hit me hard. He really does have every reason to hate me, especially because of the things about me he doesn’t know, but he still came to my rescue when no one else did. He’s here now, offering a quiet strength as I struggle to crawl out of the darkness Callahan’s advances threw me into.
