Page 50 of Without a Trace
The night had gone sideways.
Sloane was dancing on the damn table—drink in hand, hair wild, shouting lyrics no one remembered. Lena was doubled over laughing, tears streaking her mascara, while Kane had taken it upon himself to DJ from someone’s phone, playing the worst possible remixes at full volume.
Barefoot and tipsy, I was halfway spinning when Alden caught my hand and tugged me closer.
“C’mon, Love,” he said. “Give me one good twirl.”
I laughed—too loud, too loose—letting him pull me into a ridiculous half-dance near the railing. The music pulsed, the boat rocked slightly beneath us, and the stars were just starting to spill across the sky like glitter.
My bikini top clung damp against my skin, the air cooler now, sharp against the heat of my flushed chest.
Alden twirled me again, this time slower, his hand sliding briefly to my waist.
It wasn’t serious.
But itlookedserious.
And fuck, sometimes I wished it could be. He made it easy to pretend none of this was complicated. Like I wasn’t the problem. Maybe I could just exist in this moment—barefoot, flushed skin, spinning in his hands without unraveling. He held steady—smiled through the ache, never demanding more than I could give, and somehow that ruined me more than all the chaos ever could.
That’s when Trace walked back in, just reappeared like he hadn’t just vanished for twenty minutes, but the second his eyes landed on me—us—the whole vibe changed.
The sun was low, sky streaked in molten gold and fading coral, stars just beginning to push through the haze. But all I saw was him.
His gaze locked, cutting through the music, the laughter, the sunset.
Alden didn’t notice. Or maybe he did, and didn’t care.
He leaned in, his mouth brushing my ear. “He’s not the only one who knows what to do with you.”
My spine locked, breath tangled, somewhere between shock and heat. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to slap him or kiss him. Both, probably.
Trace stepped forward, just one slow step, his gaze still pinned to mine—fucking lethal.
Sloane whooped from the table, breaking the moment. “Scarlett, you better dance withmenext!”
I smiled, pretending nothing had happened and slipped away before I drowned in it.
But I felt Trace’s gaze burning into my back the whole way down the steps.
Scarlett
The buzz had worn off, but the ache hadn’t. Laughter still echoed from the bow. As I wandered back up, away from the others, pretending I was looking for more drinks. Or air. Or my sanity. None of which I had.
Sloane was half-passed out on a cushion, mumbling along to some moody remix Kane had put on.
Rhett looked around, then leaned towards me. “Where’s Lena?” he asked, just loud enough for me to hear.
I shook my head. “I don’t know. She took off a while ago. Said she needed a minute.”
Trace was near the edge of the deck—fresh drink in hand, staring out at the horizon, avoiding me.
Which, naturally, meant I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
I knew he saw. The dance. The spin. The way Alden’s hand slid down my waist like it belonged there. I’d felt Trace’s stare like it was a goddamn heat source. And yet… nothing.
He walked in, saw it, and just walked away.
Cool. Chill. Totally fine.
