The smile she’s been wearing since she walked through the door wavers. Her lashes drop before she looks back up at me, that fraudulent grin firmly back in place. We’ve seen each other on set and in meetings, but since that kiss, I’ve given her the space she requested.
“Not quite Christmas.” She sips the drink the bartender just handed her. “Another few days.”
I glance from the alcohol to her dark, glassy eyes that, up this close, are rimmed with sorrow. “What you drinking?”
“A lot.” Her laugh comes loud and hollow. “I’m drinking a lot.”
“I can see that.” I clear my throat and lean a little closer. “You might want to ease up. Some of these guys are on the prowl tonight.”
“They’re on the prowl?” The hazy eyes tu
rn defiant. “Maybe I’m on the prowl, Deck. Maybe I’m not the prey, but the hunter.”
“Huntress, I think you mean.”
“Hunter, huntress, whatever. I just might be prowling, so don’t worry about me.” She straightens from the bar and starts past me back to the dance floor. “Just stay out of my way.”
I watch the steady sway of her hips as she resumes her place on the dance floor, immediately joined by Mike Dunlov. The asshole.
“Hey, homey.” I proffer a hundred-dollar bill to the bartender between two fingers. “This is yours if you can water down her drinks when she comes back for more.”
His eyes widen and then crinkle with a smile while he pockets the cash.
“Sure thing.” He pours vodka into a cocktail shaker. “I feel for her. I do all SportsCo’s parties, and she and her fiancé were great together. It’s only been a year since he passed. Gotta be hard.”
“Yeah,” I say without offering more.
I hate discussing her like this. I’ve found myself in three conversations about how she’s handling her grief, and none of them with her. I know she’s not ready for what I’m ready for. Hell, I’m not even sure I’m ready for what I think things could be with Avery. I don’t have to be in her bed tonight, but I’d love to be in her head; to know what’s behind that hollow laugh and that out-of-body look. Like she’s here, dancing, drinking, flirting; going through all the motions, but she’s somewhere else, alone and miserable. Not really here at all.
The deejay gears the tempo down again, and Sam Smith’s cover of “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” comes on. Avery freezes in the middle of the dance floor, but Mike Dunlov keeps rocking, talking incessantly, barely noticing that Avery stands rigid in front of him. He misses the look of absolute devastation that twists her expression and floods her eyes. She walks off, leaving him alone wearing his confusion all over himself. I follow her path past Mike and around the corner. A few feet ahead of me, she grabs a bottle of champagne from one of the servers and steps out of sight onto the balcony.
Cold wind slaps me in the face when I join her at the rail. Noticing gooseflesh prickling the skin of her arms and back, I slip my jacket off and drape it over her shoulders. She jumps, spilling champagne down the front of her dress.
“Shit.” She holds the glass and the bottle away from her body, assessing the damage.
“Sorry.” I pull a cocktail napkin from my pocket and pat the wet spot on the front of her dress. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
With a half-hearted grin, she watches my hands moving over the scarce material of her bodice and skirt.
“If this is some elaborate scheme to get to second base,” she says. “It might actually work tonight.”
My hands pause just under her breasts, and I glance from the stain on her dress to the stain on her face. The stain of sadness with a shade of inebriation.
“As much as I’d like to take you up on your offer,” I say, crooking one side of my mouth even though I don’t feel like smiling, and it looks like she doesn’t either. “I’ll take a rain check.”
She narrows her eyes for a second before shrugging, setting her glass on the balcony ledge and tipping the bottle to her lips, eyes never leaving mine.
“Some other guy’s lucky night then,” she drawls.
I grab her wrist before she can take another sip, and the rim of the bottle is poised at her lips.
“No.”
It’s one word, but it covers a lot. No, she doesn’t need to drink anymore. No, it’s not some other motherfucker’s lucky night if I have anything to say about it. And no, I won’t let her drown her sorrows in champagne and meaningless sex tonight.
“No? I’m a grown-ass woman, Deck,” she snaps, a shadow flitting across her face. “Grown and fancy-free.”
A lone tear streaks through her flawless makeup. “God, I hate this song.”