Page 83 of Delicate Storm

“Dad?” I startle. “What are you doing up so late?” I slur slightly and he frowns.

“I work later than this, Paige. It’s not that late.”

“It’s not?” I stare confused. Wasn’t it after midnight?

“No. Are you okay?”

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

“Because my driver called. He wasn’t sure you’d make it to your apartment by yourself.”

“Your driver called you?”

“Yes.”

I stare at him for a second before my eyes widen and I pout, stomping my foot with my hands on my hips. “Isn’t that a gross invasion of my privacy?”

“You calledmydriver to pick you up.”

“Yes, but I didn’t know he was a tattletale.”

“Wow. And I didn’t know you reverted back to your childish self when you drank. It’s fun getting to know you again.”

“Shut up, Dad.”

“I was worried, Paige. And so was he.”

“As you can see, I’m fine. So I want you to get out and let me prove that I can get home all by myself.”

“This is your floor.”

“Ugh.” I throw my hands in the air. “Well, let’s go up to your floor and then I’ll come back downalone.”

Dad bites back a smile and it makes me frown.

“Okay, fine,” he says, giving in, knowing I have some stubborn tendencies. “But you’re being ridiculous. How will I know that you got home safe?”

“I’ll text you.”

Dad pushes the button for his floor and we travel in silence, only speaking as he gets out, wishing each other good night. And then I’m alone again.

I’ve lived by myself since I was eighteen. I don’t need help getting home, and I don’t need Dad checking up on me.

I rock as the elevator takes me back down to my floor, but when the doors open, I’m shocked awake. Or maybe I passed out and didn’t realize. Because this is a dream.

“Easton Wilder, is that you?” My heart races as a heat consumes me.

Easton—or my imagination—frowns as he steps inside, turning my way when the doors close. I sway when we start moving again and he catches me, his strong grip curling around my arms. “Are you okay?”

“Never better.” I fan myself. “Though I had no idea there was a gentleman under all that gruff hotness.” Since he’s holding my arm, I figure it’s only fair that I do the same and reach out to squeeze his bicep before letting my hand fall to his fingers. “I miss these fingers,” I say, lifting his hand for closer examination. “You really have talent.”

“Football?”

What? Ooh. “Yes. Of course, football.” That’s totally what I was thinking.

Easton smiles, and the sight of it makes me dizzy as the elevator comes to a stop.

“We’re here,” he says, making me frown as I fight to remember where we were going.

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