Page 45 of Life After You

The men at the door barely glance at us as we squeeze past. Maybe they recognize us, or maybe they’re too busy staring at the way Mac moves—effortless, completely unaware of the attention she commands. Then I spot Clay, joking with one of them, and the tension in my shoulders knots even tighter.

He walks in beside her, leaning in, his hand barely brushing her arm.

It’s fine. They can joke, they can laugh.

But if he so much as tries to make a move, I swear to God—

Mac tips her head back and laughs at something he says, and a sharp pang shoots through my chest.

Jealousy.

I grit my teeth and drag my gaze away, but it’s useless. My eyes find her again, drawn to her like she’s got her own gravitational pull. She walks through the shifting lights, reds and golds melting into blues and greens as she reaches the bar. The colors wash over her, painting her in something almost otherworldly.

I prowl after her, my top few buttons undone. She probably didn’t even notice me slipping into the shuttle earlier—front seat, while she sat in the back with the guys. But I hope she notices me now. I picked this outfit for her. Dark maroon trousers, black tailored shirt. The tailor who helped me said I looked like the devil. And hell, maybe I do.

Because tonight, I feel like her devil.

The clothes fit like a glove, snug enough to sharpen my edges but loose enough to move in. I’ll need it—there’s dancinginvolved, and if I’m lucky, I won’t be doing it alone. I might be more at home in ripped denim and a leather jacket, but standing here, watching her, I feel powerful.

People gasp as I push through the crowd, recognition flickering in their faces. I ignore them. They don’t matter. Not right now.

Not when she’s glowing under the lights, transcending her already stunning self.

Something primal tightens in my gut.

I want to hold onto her.

I need to hold onto her.

Because in two days, I have to let her go.

The thought nearly wrecks me.

I just found her again, and already, I fucking miss her. Even with her standing right there, just a few steps away, it feels like a knife pressing into my ribs.

I just got her back. And now I have to turn around and walk away? Pretend like she won’t still be here, living her life without me? That some other guy won’t see what I see and step in?

How could they not?

The idea makes me sick.

I shift my stance, forcing myself to stay put as she leans in to order a drink. The bartender plays his angle, pretending he can’t hear her, making her move closer, giving him the perfect view down her dress.

Asshole.

I know damn well he can hear her just fine. I can hear her just fine, and I’m standing by the fucking dance floor.

My grip tightens around my drink. It takes everything in me not to storm over there, slide my arm around her waist, and claim her right then and there. Make sure every single guy in this place knows she isn’t up for grabs.

That she’s mine.

Except… she’s not.

Not really.

Not yet.

And maybe not ever.

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