Page 21 of That Last Secret
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Why do you even care?”
I wish I had an answer for you, Emiline. I really do.
“Why are you crying? Are you hurt?”
She swings the stall door open, and despite looking like a complete mess, she’s still stunning. Sweat glistens on her forehead, and her glassy eyes stare me down. I can’t tell if she wants to fight me or—
“I’m fine,” she snaps before a hiccup erupts from her chest. She tries to push past me, but I lift my arms to hold each side of the stall to cage her in.
“Can we not pretend like you care about me?” she scoffs. “Not even an hour ago, you wanted me gone.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Emiline laughs, and it causes her to hiccup again. “You did. I saw you watching me while I was dancing, and you looked like you wanted me dead.”
She doesn’t break eye contact, and I get lost in those glassy eyes. Clearly masked from the alcohol of the night, almost causing me to forget why I’m here.
But I know why I’m here. It’s because she was visibly upset, and whether she believes it or not, I care about her. I don’t want to admit it while she’s in this state.
I shake myself out of the trance.
“It wasn’t you I wanted gone,” I tell her honestly.
Her eyebrows knit together in confusion. I should really walk away. I’m taking this too far and allowing myself to get too close to her.
“Your dancing partner.”
“Brooke?”
I shake my head. “The one with his hands all over you. Dancing with you all night and being close to you.” I pause to allow my words to register.
“Why?” she questions without missing a beat.
“Because he doesn’t deserve you.”
Emiline rolls her eyes and hiccups again. “Here we go with the protective bullshit again.” She lifts her pointer finger in the air, stabbing it into my chest. “I’m sick and tired of this, Logan. Let me live. If I want to dance with him, I will. If I want to go home with him, I will. If I want to fuck him, I will.” She says the last one with a louder voice, emphasizing it so I hear her clearly.
The anger I felt earlier comes back in full force. My blood runs hot, and I can feel my knuckles turning white as I hold the sides of the stalls.
“So go.”
“Maybe I will.”
“I doubt that.”
“Stop doing that,” she grits out. She stares at me like she’s waiting for me to move, but I don’t. Finally she shoves at my chest, the contact of her hands on me causes my vision to blur as if I’ve been the one drinking all night. When, in reality, I’ve been too buzzed on my jealousy to take another sip. “Oh my god. Will you move? My Uber is waiting for me,” she says.
There’s no way I’m letting her out of my sight with the state she’s in.
“Over my dead fucking body, are you leaving in a stranger’s car.”
“What did I just tell you about that?”
Leaving one hand still caging her in, the other leaves the stall frame, and my fingers grip her chin, forcing her to keep eye contact with me while I level with her.
My skin burns at the initial contact, but I do my best to ignore it.