Page 86 of Wallflower
“What the fuck is he doing here?” Chord grinds out.
“I don’t know.”
A woman steps out of the limo behind Spencer, and my heart stutters. She’s stunning—blonde and curvy in a sexy red dress, a full pout, and loads of confidence. I don’t recognize her, but if she’s here with Spencer Cook, I know who she must be.
“Is that your ex-girlfriend, Emma?” I ask.
Chord snorts and shakes his head. “Yes.”
I don’t think Spencer or Emma see us as they take their first few steps on the carpet, then pause and pose, but Spencer doesn’t hold my interest for long. I can’t look away fromher. She’s bold and gorgeous, and I shrink a little inside. It’s easy to see why any man would be attracted to her.
Even more devastating is realizing that compared to this woman’s poise and charisma, my performance on the red carpet was amateurish and embarrassing. I didn’t give this dress—or my name—the debut I’ve dreamed about.
I bite the inside of my cheek and blink against the burn of tears as Chord turns abruptly and drags me through the doors.
The gala is being held in a gorgeous ballroom complete with crystal chandeliers, velvet-draped high-top tables, stern-faced servers with champagne flutes and canapes on trays, and a complete jazz ensemble playing on the low stage.
Insecurity twists in my stomach as we fly toward the bar, me hanging onto Chord’s hand and lengthening my stride to keep up with the way he weaves between people and tables. He barks an order for a whiskey neat and a glass of white wine for me, then scowls as we wait for the server to pour the drinks.
“Is this about Spencer Cook?” I ask quietly as Chord picks up his tumbler. “Or…” My voice drops along with my self-esteem. “Or is this about Emma?”
He looks at me with surprise, then sets his drink untouched on the bar. “What?”
I look down at my dress with a hint of regret and a meek laugh that I hope will protect me from humiliation, if not pain. “You’re acting a little jealous, and… I mean… Do you still have feelings for her?”
Chord slides his warm hand around my neck and leans in, eyes burning into mine. “This isnotabout her. It’ll never be about her. Ever. I’m sorry I made you think that for a single second. You are the only woman in my head—tonight and tomorrow andalways—and being here with you tonight is the biggest thrill of my life. You’re talented. You’re beautiful. You’re a thousand—a million—times the woman she’ll ever be. And I don’t love her. I—” Chord clears his throat and blinks a few times. “Please tell me you believe me.”
I nod, not because his voice is so fierce and the words sound so true. I nod because I think he was about to tell me he loved me.
Chord exhales with a shake of his head and presses his thumb and forefinger against his eyes for a moment. When he’s calmer, he moves his hand to my shoulder, skims down my arm, and stops when his fingers twist in mine. “But Iampissed off that Cook is here. What idiot thought it was a good idea to send him an invitation?” He looks around like the culprit might be loitering nearby. “How many players from other teams are here tonight?”
I glance around. “I don’t know. There might be a few. Could it be a coincidence?”
“No. I’ve got good instincts about stuff like this.” He looks over my head and scans the people mingling around the ballroom. “Cook’s presence here tonight is intentional.”
“Do you want to leave?” I ask.
“What? No.” Chord closes his eyes, drops his head back, and takes a big breath. “I keep fucking this up. I’m sorry. I don’t want to leave. I want to stay and show you off. There’ll be time to figure out why Cook’s here later, but right now is all about you.”
A little of that lost magic sparks its way up my spine, and Chord’s lips twitch at the spots of color I’m sure he sees in my cheeks. He collects his drink, sets the other hand to the small of my back, and just when we step out into the crowd, Chord drops his hand below my waist, brushing the curve of my ass and gliding his fingers along the crease of one cheek before he gives me a little love tap. I shouldn’t love it as much as I do, but my pulse leaps at his casually intimate touch.
“Okay, Wallflower,” he says. “Let’s go get ’em.”
Forty-five minutes and two champagnes later, I can almost believe that Chord has forgotten Spencer Cook exists. We avoid him completely as we circle the impressive ballroom, stopping every few feet so Chord can make hockey small talk with the Fury’s corporate sponsors, high-paying guests, and various representatives of the Foundation’s youth charity beneficiaries.
Chord holds my hand the entire time, introduces me by name to every person we meet, and agrees with the kind of pride that makes me want to take off my underwear that, yes, the dress is stunning, and yes, the spectacular woman on his arm designed it herself.
It’s the first time in my life I don’t feel the impulse to run from the spotlight.
As we extract ourselves from yet another uncomfortable analysis of the Fury’s chances at the Cup this season, Coach Campbell approaches and shakes Chord’s hand.
“I was just coming over to save you,” he says with a glance behind us. “Martin giving you a hard time?”
“I can handle it,” Chord says with a grunt. “And he’ll be eating his words come the playoffs.”
“I’ll look forward to that.” Coach grins, and then turns to me. “You’re the belle of the ball tonight, Violet. Everyone’s talking about the beautiful woman inthat dress.”
Chord watches me with obvious satisfaction as heat paints my cheekbones. “Thank you, Coach. I’m having a wonderful time. And you’re looking dapper in your tux tonight.”
