Page 19 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Player

A faint blush colors her cheeks. “Thank you.”

Before I can say anything else, Monica claps her hands. “Showtime.”

She pushes open one of the ballroom doors.

The noise doubles instantly.

A photographer spots us. “Cal! Over here!”

Another voice joins in. “Calhoun!”

Camera flashes explode. My stomach twists. I take one step. Then another.

Every instinct in my body screams at me to turn around.

Smile. Remember to smile. My jaw locks. Don’t look uncomfortable. Too late.

The cameras are already clicking. Someone asks a question. Another microphone appears.

My tie suddenly feels too tight. The room gets louder. Brighter. Hotter. Breathe.

I can’t.

My heartbeat pounds against my ribs. I hear my own name again. Then again. Someone reaches toward me. Without thinking, I reach for Jo’s hand.

She looks up immediately. “You okay?”

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. Not because I don’t want to answer.

Because I can’t. Her expression changes. Concern replaces confusion.

I lean closer. “There are too people.”

It’s barely more than a whisper.

She squeezes my hand. “Okay.”

I nod toward a nearby hallway. “This way.”

She follows without another word.

We move as quickly as we can without attracting attention. Past the ballroom. Past the restrooms. Past the elevators.

I push open the heavy door to the emergency stairwell. It swings shut behind us with a metallic click.

Jo turns toward me. For the first time since we’d stepped out of the SUV, uncertainty flashes across her face.

Her eyes dart toward the closed door. Then back to me. I recognize that look. Oh, fuck. She thinks...

“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intend. “I didn’t... I’m not like your ex.”

“I know.”

I drag both hands through my hair.

“I just...” I bend forward, resting my palms on my knees. “I needed...”

I close my eyes. Count to ten. Then I do it again. A warm hand settles gently against my forearm.