Page 51 of Play the Last Track
Line, drawn, sand.
Remember?
“Do you want a drink?” Flynn murmurs in my ear, his hot breath sliding over my skin and setting me on fire.
“Uh,” I stutter. “Sure. Yes, yes, please.”
I watch him lift a hand and call over a waiter. He takes two glasses of champagne off the tray and passes one to me. I eagerly take a sip, but all the bubbly liquid does is fog up my head a little more. I’m getting overwhelmed. The sounds of the crowd chattering, the feel of his thigh against mine, and his hand on me, now resting on my knee as he sips his own drink. He’s sitting so close that I can smell his spicy scent. It’s not helping the brain fog.
“You okay?” he asks. I just stare at him.
You’re an open book.
“I—yeah.” I take another sip, the glass shaking in my hand as I bring it to my lips, and I feel his eyes on me, watching me so closely, it’s as if I’m his favorite subject to study.
Judging by what he said in the car, I am.
“Why do you think I’m an open book?” I ask him, turning as much as I can in my chair to face him.
He looks confused at first, but he shakes it off quickly. “You just are. I can read you. Your body language, your facial expressions, the tone of your voice when you say things.” He shrugs like what he’s saying is the most normal thing in the world. “You just are.”
“How long have you thought this about me?”
“What do you mean?”
“How long have you thought I’m an open book? Just while I’ve been living with you?” I press, urgency dripping from my tone.
“I—” He removes the hand resting on my knee to rub the back of his neck before setting it down on my leg again. I ignore the flare of heat that shoots through my veins from where he touches me. “Always, I suppose. Since I first saw you at Pat’s, when I came in with Scott. It’s more noticeable to me now because I’m around you, but I remember thinking that day that you looked like a girl who wears her emotions all over her face. The way you were glaring at Scott when he asked you to pass on his number.”
“For so long?” I ask in a whisper. My breath catches in my throat, and I’m finding it difficult to get any air into my lungs.
“Katie? What’s wrong? Should I not have said it? I’m sorry, I—”
Before he can finish, the emotions bubble, and I feel the familiar sting of tears behind my eyes. No way will I be crying in public, knowing there are about a million cameras pointed at us tonight. That is not a photo I want spread across gossip pages and on Instagram feeds. I push my chair back and stand. His hand slips from my leg with the movement.
I look around the room and spot the bathrooms, weaving my way through the tables and chairs toward the hallway that leadsto them. I stumble on my heels just as I reach the entrance to the corridor, but a strong arm catches me around the waist and pulls me against their chest.
Strong spice, fresh grass, and vanilla surround me.
“Whoa,” he murmurs, his voice low and strong against my ear.
Of course, he followed me.
“I’m fine. I just need a minute.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I am. I just need a minute, I promise.”
“Tell me what just happened there.” He pulls me deeper into the deserted corridor.
“I’m fine,” I repeat.
Flynn lets out a low noise, something sounding close to a growl, and crowds me. I take a step back, and my back hits the wall. He leans a hand against the wall, just above my head, and leans over me. From the main room, where all the guests are, you wouldn’t be able to tell we were down here, yet when I look down the corridor, I have a good view of anyone coming our way.
Flynn lifts a hand, his fingers grabbing my chin, and gently brings my attention back to him. “I hate that word.Fine. You’re not fine. What just happened?”
“Grant never—” I swallow, blinking back the tears that start to form. “Grant always told me he couldn’t read me. Four years we spent together, and he couldn’t ever pick up on the little things. Yet you, who I’ve only known for a year or so, can read me like an open book, apparently.”
