Page 130 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
It’s 6:12 when I see him.
Brad’s just inside the main entrance, schmoozing with a sponsor. His posture is relaxed, polished in that performative way he’s always been good at. Charcoal gray suit, crisp shirt, hands tucked casually into his pockets like he owns the room.
He’s not looking at me. Not yet.
But I feel the shift in my stomach anyway.
I figured he’d be here. His name was on the guest list, clear as day. I’d stared at it for a full minute before telling Jenna to leave it. I wasn’t going to look weak by pretending I couldn’t handle his presence.
Still, seeing him here sends a chill down my spine.
I turn away before he can catch my eye.
Jenna appears at my elbow a second later, murmuring, “Do you want me to—”
“No,” I say quickly. “He’s not worth it.”
She nods once, brisk and approving. “Then let him blend into the wallpaper.”
I exhale slowly. “Exactly.”
Across the room, Jackson meets my eyes, his gaze going from me to Brad and back again. He doesn’t ask anything aloud, but his expression shifts: alert now, protective in that quiet way he has.
I give him the smallest nod, and he relaxes again.
By the time dinner plates are cleared and fresh coffee hits the tables, the room has settled into that golden-hour hum: conversation flowing easily, wine glasses half full, laughter blooming in pockets across the floor.
At 6:45, the lights dim and the projector flickers to life. A hush ripples through the crowd as the spotlight video begins. It’s only three minutes long, but it lands like a stone skipping across still water.
Clips roll of kids turning pages with quiet wonder, parents at library events, and teachers sharing how donated books transformed their classrooms. One little boy grins at the camera,proudly sounding out a sentence: “I can read this one all by myself.”
By the end, a few people are discreetly dabbing their eyes. I’m one of them.
The lights ease back up to warm levels, and for a breath, no one speaks.
Then, applause. Genuine, full, echoing softly off the ballroom walls.
Jackson finds me near the edge of the crowd as dessert is served: coffee, petite lemon tarts, and chocolate mousse so perfect it should be illegal. Jackson slides a plate in front of me and sits beside me.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
I nod, still a little wrecked from the video. “I wasn’t ready to cry over a six-year-old reading a library book, but here we are.”
“You’re killing it out there,” he says quietly.
I smile and lean my shoulder into his just enough to feel it. “Thanks for being here.”
“Always.”
Jackson gently taps his fingers against mine, then stands to grab something at the bar.
I stay seated, just for a moment. Around me, laughter swells, forks clink, music hums. I let myself breathe.
That’s when I see him.
Brad’s over by the silent auction tables, laughing with one of our mid-tier donors like they’re old friends. It’s the same laugh I’ve heard at a hundred networking events — calculated, a little too loud, meant to be overheard. The donor’s smile is polite but distant, her eyes already drifting toward the dessert table.
My shoulders stiffen, pulse kicking up. Not fear, just that familiar unease. Like bracing for a wave you’ve survived but will never trust.
