“Brock!” I hissed, trying to reach out, but he was faster than I was, grabbing them, and shoving them into his breast pocket.
“Don’t worry. No one else saw,” he assured me, reaching for my hand, and placing it on his arm. “I believe we are about to miss the horrible first course,” he said.
And that was it.
He didn’t mention it.
He didn’t shoot me scandalous looks at the table.
We just… ate.
And talked.
Like we hadn’t just snuck away and had sex in some hidden room in the back of the building.
Insecurity, ugly and uncomfortable, wrapped its cold, slimy hand around my throat, squeezing until I felt like there was no air in the room.
It was right then that Brock stood beside my chair, holding out a hand.
When I glanced up, I couldn’t read his face.
But I placed my hand in his and let him pull me up, then lead me to the dance floor as I tried to tell myself it was to keep up appearances. When the truth was that I needed the assurance that he wasn’t immediately over me after we’d gotten intimate.
“What’s the matter?” he asked as he pulled me to his chest and started to lead.
“Nothing,” I insisted. But it was too fast. Too telling.
“Liar,” he whispered down by my ear.
“I’m hungry,” I insisted, giving him half the truth in the hopes that he would take it as all of it and let it drop.
“Me too. But that’s not what has your eyes looking like that.”
“My eyes are fine,” I said, even as I kept my gaze averted.
“If you’re worried about the well-being of your panties, don’t worry,” he said, and I could hear the smirk in his voice. “They’re safe. Right here by my heart,” he said, guiding my hand there.
“You’re ridiculous,” I told him, but he accomplished his goal.
He got me to smile.
He got me to look up at him.
“You love it,” he shot back, leaning down to press his forehead to mine for a second. “So, what is it, another forty minutes or so of stuffy nonsense before we can make a run for it?”
“Sounds about right,” I agreed, and found myself suddenly torn. Between the urge to run off with him to get fast food in our formal wear and the desire to have the night stretch as long as possible.
Whether it was long enough or not, though, about forty-five minutes later, we were making our way out the front doors and down the steps toward my waiting car.
And there on my seat in the back was something that hadn’t been there before.
A white envelope.
“What’s that?” Brock asked as he slid in beside me, looking down at the envelope I was holding.
“I don’t know. It wasn’t here before,” I told him. “Should I open it?”
“Not yet,” he said, carefully taking it by the very edge and setting it down in the door pocket. “We’re going to use some caution. And tweezers,” he said, reaching out to squeeze my knee. “We’re not going to obsess over it,” he said. “And we will ask Mitchell if he saw anyone near the car.”