Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 83070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
I try to pull my palm out of Gannon’s, but he clenches harder.
“I’ve been well, thank you. How about yourself?” Gannon asks, his words measured.
He’s uncomfortable and that makes me want to hug him. But hugging him in public would be a step beyond hand-holding and that concerns me a bit itself. Besides, I’m not sure how he would react if I did wrap my arms around him. It might make him feel even more awkward and that’s the last thing I want to do.
“Good, good.” The old man glances at me. “Is this the missus?”
Oh, my God. My face pales at the suggestion. Is he seriously asking if we’re married?
“This is Carys Johnson,” Gannon says, steadying me with his gaze. If he’s thrown by the missus reference, he doesn’t show it. “Carys, this is Matthew Broadbent. He was my physics teacher my senior year.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Miss Johnson.”
“Likewise,” I say, trying to be as cool with the missus thing as Gannon.
“I’ll have you know that Gannon was one hell of a student,” Matthew says. “One of the brightest students I ever had the pleasure of teaching. He didn’t always make it easy but he did keep me on my toes.”
I smirk up at my date. “I have no doubt that’s true. I’ve had a little personal experience with that, as well.”
“Some things never change, I suppose.” Matthew chuckles. “Gannon, it was good to see you. You should come around here more often.”
He pats Gannon’s shoulder before he moves along.
“Do these people know Tate?” I ask, my heart pattering. “Because you didn’t mention this was an event at your alma mater or I might’ve asked this question earlier.”
“You think too much.”
“Fine. When Tate calls me screaming like a baby, I’ll direct him to you.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
This man is incorrigible.
Jazz music floats through the air, winding around the metallic gold and white balloons shrouding the ceiling. Round tables with white tablecloths and black chairs fill the ballroom. Candles are lit throughout the space, but the main lighting comes from gaudy chandeliers overhead. It gives we have way more old money than sense vibes.
We wind our way through the banquet hall, pausing here and there to greet random men holding glasses of amber-colored liquid and women with fancy jewels. Finally, after what feels like an eternity of fake smiling and internal panicking, we find the table with two place cards labeled Mr. Gannon Brewer.
Gannon pulls out my chair, ensures I’m comfortable, and sits beside me. His eyes dart around the room, and the rigidity is back in his shoulders.
“Hey,” I say, touching the side of his face. “What’s the matter?”
His attention slides back to me, and his eyes soften. “Nothing’s the matter.”
“I’d hate to have to take you back to the car …”
He chuckles softly, leaning forward to press a kiss against my forehead.
The tender moment catches me off guard, and a lump settles in my throat. Warmth spreads through my veins and flows into my chest. I should pull away—I know I should. But all I want to do is lean into him … for me, and for him.
This is not the Gannon Brewer I propositioned in Tate’s office. He’s not the man who barely said ten complete sentences at Tapo’s either. He’s not the walled-off human who comes across as cold and callous.
This man is sweet and kind. Thoughtful. Selfless in many ways. And as hard as he tries to exude stoicism, and does very well at it, that’s not who he is at all.
I study his profile as he gazes across the throngs of bodies mingling around the room, wondering what’s going through his head. He’s uncomfortable, for sure. He’s also grateful that I’m here—that goes without question. But Gannon is always cool, calm, and collected in every situation.
Why is this one different?
“There’s a bar across the way,” he says, nodding toward the opposite wall adjacent to a stage with long black drapes. “Would you like a drink? They probably have everything you can think of.”
“A matcha latte?”
“Red wine it is.” He winks. “Do you want to fight that crowd with me, or would you rather stay here?”
I glance over my shoulder at the congestion of bodies packing the area in front of the bar. “Yeah, I’m good here.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He stands, trailing his fingers across the back of my neck as he leaves.
A flurry of goose bumps dot my skin as I watch him move through the crowd. He’s stopped every few feet by people wanting to say hello or shake his hand. It’s so interesting to watch—so different from how people treat him at work. Everyone seems happy to see him and excited that he’s here.
Why does it seem like he wants to be anywhere else?
“I didn’t expect to see you here.”