Page 55 of Well That Happened

I lean against the porch railing, trying to slow my heart.

Then I hear footsteps.

Not heavy. Not hurried.

It’s Grayson.

He stands beside me in silence for a second, then pulls something from behind his back.

His hoodie.

“I figured you’d need this,” he says.

I take it, slip it on, the sleeves fall over my hands.

“Thanks.”

“You were impressive,” he says.

I huff a breath. “Thanks, but I doubt that.”

“You were in charge. You were calm. You handled it.”

I glance over at him. “That’s the job.”

He nods once. Then, quieter, “I liked watching you do it.”

My stomach flips.

“You okay?” he asks.

I should be.

I nod.

But then his hand brushes mine—just a little—and the contact steals the air right out of my lungs.

“Good,” he says. “Because if you weren’t, I’d carry you inside.”

I laugh. “Is that supposed to be comforting or threatening?”

He smirks, looking out at the street. “You tell me.”

“I think I’m okay. Thanks, though. Just need a minute of air.”

He nods like he gets it. “I’ll be right in there if you need me.” And then he heads back inside.

The party’s humming behind me like nothing happened.

Connor’s patched up. The guy who threw the punch is long gone. And I should feel proud—cool, collected, competent.

Instead, I feel like I’m made of caffeine and static.

The calm lasts about four seconds.

Because I hear the door open behind me.

I turn around.

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