Tell Me Our Story

It was just . . . intensely sentimental. He never let anyone touch it.

Her eyes returned to his, kind and sad. She smiled again and plucked his phone from his pocket. “Stay right there. Book open against your chest. Yes. Goddamn, I wish it was me. . . . There, your fans will go nuts.”

“Hardly.”

“Just you wait. At ICon they’ll be all over you.”

“It won’t be me they’re all over . . .” The thought trailed between them, and Jacquie knew enough to know exactly what he meant.

“Will you be okay?”

Jonathan picked himself up, dusting off invisible grass. “I’ll be fine.”

Just fine.

Absolutely fine.

O’Hara, flushed, dimple flashing. Eyes looking right into the camera.

Top five is nothing to sneer at! Looking forward to meeting our esteemed judges—and this year’s fellow competitors—in person in Sydney at the ICon!

Chapter Two

A frightening elevator ride, and philosophical shenanigans

Jonathan sat at one of the dozen tables for the opening dinner and willed himself to hold it together. His first ICon. Months of mental preparation, and still he sweated. Willed himself not to search out the bright, full-throated laughter that rippled through the dining area. Willed himself not to scan the hundred-plus crowd for him.

But all during dinner, Jonathan’s ears had been filled with that uninhibited laughter. Like a wet umbrella popping open in his face, covering him forehead to chin in fresh rain. It tickled. Made him shiver.

He needed it. He needed to escape it.

Key-card cutting into his palm, he dashed to the lobby and pressed the up button between two brass-doored elevators. He’d go to his room. Call it in for the night.

Movement caught his peripheral vision. His nape prickled; his limbs locked together.

“I thought you lived in Sydney?” came a creamy female voice.

“Couldn’t miss out on all the naughty fun that happens at night.” That laugh. “Come on. Show me your room.”

“You’re determined, O’Hara.”

“I prefer charming.”

Both sets of elevator doors dinged and opened. Jonathan hurriedly slid into the fuller one, alongside another couple and their massive suitcases. He jabbed at the button for the 12th floor and the doors blessedly began to close.

“Quick, Mira. Let’s catch that one.”

“But the other one is empty—”

“Hold the doors!” O’Hara called jovially.

The middle-aged woman next to Jonathan immediately unfolded her arm and the doors buckled open again.

Jonathan dropped his gaze to the floor as they squeezed in. A glittery red dress and strappy heels pushed past him, followed by tight, monotone grey jeans and a darker grey jersey, artfully distressed at the hip.

A braided leather wristband caught his eye. O’Hara dropped his hand from the panel of floor buttons and a whoosh of air breezed against Jonathan’s arm. There was a slight hitch in the air. A hesitation.

Quiet acknowledgment.

Jonathan’s focus froze on the panel. No new number had lit up. Either O’Hara and Mira were on the same floor as the couple, or they were at the top like him.

The elevator creaked and groaned as it ascended, and Jonathan’s key-card bent under his squeezing grip. The floors took forever to pass.

O’Hara shifted, bumping into the couple’s suitcase. A thump had him crouching with cheerful apologies, and just like that they were talking about where they’d been in Australia so far, and where they should go, and joking about O’Hara’s accent—neither Kiwi nor Aussie despite his having lived in both countries, but it didn’t bother him, because everyone loved an unusual accent. It started many a conversation, just look.

The elevator reopened and the couple pushed out with their luggage, waving happily and wishing O’Hara and Mira a wonderful evening.

Jonathan looked quietly toward O’Hara’s black ankle boots, one crossed over the other. He couldn’t deny, O’Hara had always been skilled at forging connections.

The elevator clattered upwards again with a sway. He touched his fist to his mouth and focused rigidly on the floor numbers counting up, ignoring the whispers and flashes of twirling red and grey as O’Hara hummed Johann Strauss. That song. Was he . . . trying to say something?

“I thought the dancing was all made up,” Mira murmured.

“An old friend had ballroom-champion parents. He taught me . . . everything.”

Jonathan closed his eyes and squeezed his key-card.

Mira sighed. “Do you twirl everyone you meet?”

“It puts a smile on their faces, so why not?”

“A smile on their faces. Yeah, that’s why you do it.”

O’Hara didn’t respond, but there was another twirl of red and grey.

Jonathan shut his eyes—

The elevator groaned and stopped.

—he shot them open again.

The lights above died, and the doors weren’t opening. He drew in a deep breath and shoved the key-card into his pocket before he snapped it. Power cut. Probably due to the storm.

Any moment, it’d kick back on.

It would.

Keep it together.

Mira gave a laugh, and O’Hara slipped to Jonathan’s side.

“Hey, you all good?” he murmured.

“Fine.”

Movement stirred the air again and O’Hara touched his arm. Three fingers. The heat blazed through Jonathan’s cashmere. “Sure?”