Page 98 of Our Little Cliche
I knew it.
A bloody holly.
How fucking cliché.
“Shit, that’s you!” I squawk, delayed in awareness that the awarder has called out Cyrus’s name. He’s won an award forsomething, but I haven’t been paying any attention to know what for. I pull his jacket from the chair and shove it against his chest. “Go, go, go!”
“Perfect…” he mutters under his breath as he struts off.
On the screen behind the commentator is a presentation, showing that Cyrus has won the highest rated dark romance novel. I stand, fighting a tear as I clap, so hopelessly proud of him, then whistle a melody with my fingers slotted between my lips. My ears ring as the crowd roars for him. Not a single person in the building doesn’t have their hands together for Cyrus. Suddenly, a sense of dread hits me.
I can’t let him ruin his career over me.
I don’t care what he says, it’snotjust a title. It’snotjust money. This is his entire life.Ugh, this fucking sucks!I can’t let my head go down that rabbit hole again, we’ve come so far, but right now as he grasps the beautiful glass trophy in the palm of his hand, losing what makes himhimis all I can think about.
A member of the audience chants, others joining in. “Speech. Speech. Speech!”
Cyrus holds his lips about an inch from the mic stand, his breathy sigh echoing through the room over the speakers. “Wow. Thank you, everyone. I wasn’t expecting…” he toys with the crystal, holding it up in the air. “Well, this. Quinn, buddy, we’ve got a hell of a lot to celebrate for this year, I’m closing it off a proud man, and entering the new one with a bang.” His eyes dart to mine even from so far away, looking through me in a way that has me both flexing my thighs together, and gulping nervously all in one.Oh, shit.“Holly?”
I slouch in my chair, hoping that everyone somehow magically went deaf and no one heard him. But then everyone turns to look for who thisHollyperson is.
“Miss Cate, won’t you please join me?”
The alcohol leaves my body in an instant.
“Oh. My. Dear. God,” Stacy mutters in disbelief, a pause between each word.
…Yeah.
That.
“Come on, get up there, lady,” someone nearby presses, but my body remains concrete in my chair.
“Don’t be shy, sweetheart. You can do it,” a soft female voice runs through my ears, catching my attention, but I don’t see where it’s coming from.That voice… it sounds so familiar.“Where’s that fierce Aussie girl that’s full of guts, and passion?”
Susan?
She’s here?
I don’t know what comes over me, but I stand, and similar to being introduced to everyone here, the entire audience stares, but with much more intensity. My body feels as though it’s seconds from catching alight by their burning glares.
Cyrus holds his hand out for me when I reach the stairs to the portable stage, my heart beating a million miles a second, and my breath erratic as I take it. Lighting bolts strike when our skin collides as he guides me up to the podium beside him, unexpectedly making me gasp, andalmosttrip.
I’ve touched this man a million times, you’d think I’d be used to it by now.
“I’ve got you. I’vealwaysgot you,” his delicate voice whispers into my ear, away from the mic.
The crowd stays silent, waiting patiently for whatever it is Cyrus is about to say. I don’t see many faces, as everything around me is blurred, but I do see Quinn, Stacy, Bentley, and…
Crap, the photographer from earlier today.
“Uh, thank you, everyone. I’d like to stay a few words, if I may,” Cyrus slowly chokes through the speaker, like he’s delaying something. “Five, actually.” And as if a stiff body and afluttering heart isn’t enough to deal with in front of four hundred people, my stomach drops seeing what I do next.
His hand disappearing into his coat pocket.
That bloody holly.
In one hand, he holds the sprig, and in the other, his award for best dark romance. He peers over his shoulder at the big, cast iron wall clock hung beside a deer head. It’s 11.59 P.M.
