Page 150 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
“Twenty-four thousand!”
“Twenty-five!” Malina snaps, her voice like a dagger.
The room gasps, then bursts into applause before the announcer can even bring down the gavel.
“Sold! Twenty-five thousand dollars to the blonde-haired lady in the red dress and mask!”
The crowd roars, clapping and cheering. I stand there, shocked, my smile feeling stiff at the edges.
Marlow beams, clapping furiously, her pride filling every inch of the space.
And then—movement. A flicker of silver.
Eslin.
Her mask gleaming, her lips painted that impossible wine-red, her whole presence like gravity itself. But then—she turns. She bolts. Disappearing into the crowd so fast it knocks the air from me.
The applause doesn’t matter. The money doesn’t matter. Even Marlow’s pride doesn’t soften the tight ache in my chest.
The very thing I didn’t want to happen, just did.
It’s all fun and games—charity, spectacle, the kind of event meant to dazzle. I get that, and I’m sure she gets it too. But I saw her face before she turned away. Saw the flash in her eyes when Malina threw down that final bid.
Eslin knows Malina does want me and she’ll stop at nothing to take me. She’s not being shy about that.
But the thought of Eslin believing—if only for a second—that she’d have to compete with that? Withher? It twists something in me I can’t live with.
So I don’t think. I don’t weigh appearances or consequences or what this will look like on the gala floor. I just move. I follow her.
Chapter forty-four
Red Dresses & Reckonings
Grant
The gala is a blur behind me—the applause, the cheers, the weight of twenty-five thousand dollars for a date I don’t give a damn about. None of it matters. Not with Eslin disappearing the way she did. Not with the look on her face when Malina’s bid won.
I find her in the dim silence of an unused ballroom where the chairs are stacked and silver trays wait for tomorrow’s event. The lights are low, shadows stretching long across the floor, but I can hear her before I see her. Quiet, ragged cries that rip me open.
“Go away, Grant.”
Her voice cracks, but it still slices straight through me.
“How did you know it was me?”
“I can always tell it’s you,” she whispers, not turning. “I can always feelyou.”
Then why do you keep running from me? The words stay stuck in my throat, pounding at my ribs, demanding to be free.
Instead, I move closer, my steps quiet across the carpet until I’m behind her. She’s braced against a table, shoulders trembling, her back to me like she can’t bear to face me.
“You saw the look in Marlow’s eyes,” she finally says, voice breaking. “She wants you happy. She wants you with Malina.”
I reach out, unable to stop myself, and let my hand rest on her shoulder. Just that little bit of contact, grounding us both. Connecting us.
“And I want you,” I say, my voice rough with everything I’ve held back for too damn long. “Fuck, Eslin. How many times do we have to do this dance?”
She turns, slow, like the weight of it might crush her. Her eyes are wet, her cheeks flushed. “I don’t know,” she breathes. “And I have no right to say this. No right to demand this, but Grant—”
