Page 85 of Just The Way You Aren't

"Mrs. Weatherby collects rare books. She'll talk your ear off about her library," he warns with a slight smile. "Her husband's the one who writes the checks."

I nod. "Divide and conquer. Smart."

He almost smiles—the real one, not his public face—but catches himself. And there it is again. That careful distance.

That emotional pulling back from me.

I want to grab his lapels and shake him. Want to demand he tell me what he's thinking, what happens after tonight, whether this thing between us ends when the last auction bid is placed. But I’m not sure I want the answer. And I’m not sure I want to shatter this magical evening with questions about the future.

Instead, I go charm Mrs. Weatherby.

Twenty minutes later, I'm reassuring a nerve-wracked Juana that she’s going to do just fine with the short speech she’s due to give on stage. I’m still attempting to calm her withmy pep talk and a glass of champagne when Damien appears at my elbow.

"Mrs. Blackstone, I'd like you to meet the Executive Director of Silver Hearts, Ms. Willow Harper," he says smoothly. "Willow, Mrs. Blackstone is interested in corporate sponsorship opportunities."

“Oh! How nice to meet you, Mrs. Blackstone.” I beam at the elegant woman, launching into my well-practiced pitch about partnership benefits. But I'm hyperaware of Damien beside me—the subtle heat and solidness of his body, the way he's scanning the room even while appearing to listen.

"That sounds wonderful," Mrs. Blackstone says. "Theodore and I would be delighted to—oh, there he is now. Theodore!" She waves across the room. "Do excuse me."

She hurries off, leaving Damien and me truly alone for the first time since we arrived. The silence stretches between us, filled with everything we're not saying.

"The response has been incredible," I finally manage. "I think we might actually hit our fundraising goal."

"Of course we will." He's still scanning the crowd. "All our work is paying off tonight."

We. Our. He keeps using these words like we're a team, like this partnership extends beyond tonight. But he won't look at me for longer than a second. He won't drop his perfect host facade for even a moment.

"Damien—"

"There's Councilman Harrison," he interrupts. "We should say hello. He’s the one to talk to if we want to tap into some city funding for senior programs."

And we're off again, playing our parts flawlessly while the elephant in the room grows larger with each passing minute. My cheeks hurt from smiling, my feet ache in these beautifulbut impractical heels, and my heart feels like it's being squeezed in a vise every time Damien almost meets my eyes before looking away.

We're standing near the bar, taking a rare breather between conversations, when I notice the shift in him. It's subtle—a tightening of his jaw, his hand finding my waist with just a bit more pressure than necessary.

I follow his gaze across the room and spot Wyatt Reed immediately. He's hard to miss, all easy charm and perfect dark hair.

“Hey, isn’t that?—”

“Yes,” Damien replies, his deep voice almost as low as a growl.

Wyatt is surrounded by four other gorgeous men who look like they just stepped out of a billionaire lifestyle catalog. They're all in perfectly tailored tuxedos, all ridiculously handsome, all scanning the room with the confidence of people who own whatever they survey.

Catching sight of Damien and me, Wyatt grins, saying something to his companions. As one, they start heading our way, moving through the crowd.

CHAPTER 27

DAMIEN

The last thing I need right now is my poker friends descending on us like a pack of well-dressed wolves who've spotted fresh prey. But here they come, all five of them, cutting through the crowd with the confidence of men who've never met a room they couldn't own.

Or a woman they couldn't charm.

On instinct, I move my arm around Willow's waist. It’s a possessive move, but if I know my friends it’s imperative that I stake my claim right up front.

Better yet, maybe we still have time to make a quick detour toward the auction tables?—

Fuck. Too late.

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