Page 27 of Whiskey Throttle
It takes me a second to register the words. I look down at her. She’s standing close. Eyes dark and endless. Not angry. Not horrified. Just looking, not at the phone anymore.
At me.
“It does this thing.”
Her voice is almost apologetic. A sadness in her expression.
“Where it fights to stay composed. Even when it’s already lost.”
I swallow hard. The champagne’s gone flat on my tongue. My mouth is dry. My brain short-circuits while my mouth fumbles for words. For wanting an explanation yet knowing I won’t get one.
“I tried to get it right.”
She glances at the sketch again, my phone still lit in my hand. Then, almost impossibly, she smiles. Not the tight, public kind. Not the one she wore for photographers with Dom a bit ago, or wears for old money wives at charity luncheons.
A real one. That reaches something inside me. That stirs up the same feeling I had that night and in the parking lot when I wedged myself into her car door. A feeling so foreign and uncomfortable that I hate it because it scares the shit out of me. She takes a step back, smoothing her flawless dress. Her composure returns like a shield of armor. I hate that even more.
“You see too much, Hollister.”
I grab the step she gives away, keeping the distance close. I am pursuing her as I always seem to do, which is an oddity for me. Usually, I’m pursued, not pursuing. Another uncomfortable position to be in.
“Maybe I see the real you. The one you keep hidden from everyone else?”
I lock my phone and shove it into my breast pocket. All actions that don’t escape her scrutiny.
“And who is the real me? Do you know?”
It’s a bitter statement. Followed by a hollow chuckle. It reminds me of her son. That’s not a good thing.
“I think I know more than most. I’ve always paid attention to you.”
She arches a perfectly drawn brow, and I see the flash of challenge in her eyes.
“You remember that Christmas party you had? I must have been thirteen or fourteen. One of those boring fundraisers for the Ambassador. Dom bailed an hour in, saying his head hurt, and went to bed. I didn’t want to be there either, but my parents refused to leave. I found the back stairwell. Sat with my sketchbook while everyone else got drunk on spiked cider.”
Her expression falters. Just slightly.
“You came down the stairs for some reason. Some senator was being an ass. You muttered it under your breath. I was sketching him. You saw it and said I made his chin too flattering.”
She blinks with realization. I see her remember and continue.
“You said, ‘Give him a rat tail. That’s what he is.’”
The corner of her mouth fights not to smile.
“You stayed there for ten minutes. Asked questions. Told me I had an eye for humor. That I drew people like I saw them, bare, but not in a vulgar way. Just unarmored.”
I take a breath.
“You’ve always seen things too. Even if you hate it. Even if it scares the hell out of you.”
She looks at me now, not past me, not around me. At me. I’m finally breaking through her armor. The heat between us isn’t the kind that can be shaken off or drowned in champagne. It simmers in silence. It’s history. It’s knowing. Yet it’s still not going anywhere.
She shakes her head. Her demeanor changes. Shying away from the chemistry that crackles between us.
“And that, dear Hollister, is the problem. I do remember that young man. It’s why I’ve given it a lot of thought and know we can’t proceed on anything either of us might be feeling.”
Her voice is calm and perfectly modulated. Every word is dressed in practiced poise. My jaw clenches. She’s retreating. Not physically. Her heels haven’t moved. But everything else about her has pulled back into the fortress of restraint she wears better than any ball gown in her closet.
