Page 84 of Just The Way You Aren't

But God, I want so much more than that.

CHAPTER 26

WILLOW

The Plaza Hotel towers above us like something out of a fairy tale, its limestone facade glowing golden in the evening light. I've walked past this building a hundred times, but I've never actually been inside. Now, gripping Damien's arm as we approach the entrance, I feel like I'm about to step into someone else's life.

"You okay?" Damien asks, his hand covering mine where it rests on his arm.

"Just trying not to gawk like a tourist." I attempt a laugh, but it comes out shaky. Through the massive doors, I can see marble columns and crystal chandeliers that each must cost more than Silver Hearts' annual budget.

"It's just a building," he says, but there's something tender in his voice. As the doorman holds the door for us, Damien leans close to my ear. "And I promise you, Silver Hearts will always have venues like this for your events. Whatever you need."

The casual certainty in his voice, as if he's already planning future fundraisers, future events where he'll beinvolved, makes my chest tight. "Damien, you don't have to?—"

"I want to." He guides me inside, and my protest dies as I take in the opulent lobby. Everything is marble and gold and crystal, like stepping inside a jewelry box. "This is what your organization deserves."

I should thank him. I should say something about how generous he is, how much his support means. Instead, what comes out is: "You're too good to us. To me."

He stops walking, slowly turning to face me fully. For a moment, I think he's going to say something important—something about us, about after tonight. His eyes search mine for a long moment, and I stare back, holding my breath in anticipation of what he might say.

"Willow, I?—"

"Oh, Mr. Langley! Ms. Harper!" A woman in Plaza uniform approaches with a bright smile. "We're so pleased to have Silver Hearts here tonight. Everyone is so excited for this event. Now, if you'll just follow me to the ballroom?"

The moment shatters. Damien straightens, his professional mask sliding into place. "Of course. Thank you."

As we follow her through the ornate hallways, I can't stop thinking about one particular moment in the car with Damien.Friends.Why did I say friends? The word had slipped out so easily, like a defense mechanism. And I'd felt him pull back immediately—not obviously, not in a way anyone else would notice, but I know him now. I recognize the subtle shift in his shoulders when he’s turning something over in his mind. It was there in the car in that moment, along with the careful neutrality that replaced the warmth in his voice.

He must know he means more to me than just a friend. Doesn't he? After everything we've shared—the nights in hisbed, the mornings with my chaotic pets, the way he held my hand while talking about his mother—surely he knows.

"Here we are, the main ballroom," our guide announces, opening massive double doors.

I actually gasp. The space is transformed into everything I dreamed and more. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over round tables dressed in silver linens. The centerpieces—my salvaged, deconstructed disasters—somehow look intentional and artistic here. The auction items are displayed on tables along one wall like museum pieces.

"It's so perfect," I breathe.

"You sound surprised." Damien's hand finds the small of my back, a touch that's both formal and intimate. He lowers his voice for my ears only. "Did you think I’d allow anything less for you?"

"No, I just..." I turn in a slow circle, taking it all in. "I keep waiting to wake up. Like maybe this is all too good to be real."

Something flickers in his eyes—a flash of uncertainty that matches my own. But before either of us can pursue it, people start arriving.

"Ready or not, here we go," I murmur. “It’s showtime.”

"We've got this," he replies, but there's a weight to the words. Like he means more than just the fundraiser.

The next hour becomes a blur of introductions and air kisses, of donor management and subtle auction promotion. Damien and I move through the room like dance partners who know each other's steps by heart. He steers conversations when I need a breath; I charm difficult donors when his patience wears thin. I’m not afraid to admit it. We're a perfect team.

Which makes the careful distance between us even more noticeable.

We're polite. Professional. Our touches are appropriate—his hand on my back to guide me through crowds, my fingers on his arm when I need his attention. But there's none of the easy intimacy we've developed. No shared looks over ridiculous donor requests, no whispered jokes between conversations.

It's like we're both trying so hard to act normal that we've forgotten what normal is for us.

"The Weatherbys want a private tour of the auction items," Damien murmurs as we pass near the display. "They're particularly interested in that signed Hemingway first edition."

"I'll handle it." I paste on my brightest smile. "She seems lovely. I'll give her the tour while you handle her husband's questions about bid procedures."

---