Exes and O's (The Influencer, #2)(87)

Out of nowhere, a shiver electrifies my spine. Goosebumps scatter down my arms, as if I’m standing directly under the chilly blast of a vent. A velvety, audiobook-worthy voice upends everything in my orbit, stopping me in my tracks.





? chapter thirty-one


MY BODY MALFUNCTIONS like a laptop drowned by a spilled glass of water, screen flickering until it surrenders to the void.

For the briefest of moments, I convince myself Trevor’s voice was simply an audio hallucination. Nothing but a vivid symptom of my general heartache. I’m sure of it, until my name slices the air for the second time.

“Tara.”

I pivot as fast as possible in three-inch heels on carpet, confirming that for once, it isn’t my overactive imagination propelled by emotional, golf-ball-size hailstones.

Trevor is here.

In the flesh.

My chest blazes with heat, trying to reconcile the vision before my eyes. Trevor is not fighting fires on the West Coast. He is five feet in front of me, dressed in the same perfectly tailored suit he wore at Mamma Maria’s. He’s single-handedly sucking all the oxygen out of the hallway, leaving nothing for the rest of us. “What . . . what are you doing here?”

He pins me with his heated gaze. “I came home early.”

Everything but his perfect face blurs, like we’re on a merry-go-round at double speed. “Why?” I ask simply.

He works down a swallow, hesitating, his eyes dipping to his feet, then back to me. “You look”—he gestures toward me, jaw slack—“absolutely beautiful.”

Trevor isn’t one to bullshit. He doesn’t give a compliment he doesn’t mean. The earnest expression on his face cements it. The corners of my lips threaten to curve into a shy smile, until I recall his blatant lack of communication over the past three days. I’m transported back to that sinking moment at Mel’s. When I accidently sent him three photos in this very dress and he didn’t even bother to respond.

“Why didn’t you answer my text?”

He works down a swallow, hesitating.

I expect him to offer an excuse, like he was too busy doing hero shit, running into fiery blazes and saving lives. Or maybe he had bad reception and didn’t even receive the photo. While I’m fairly certain that’s not the case, given I specifically saw him typing, I’ve held on to the possibility, however remote.

Trevor doesn’t offer either justification. “You didn’t mean to send them to me, I thought.”

As we take each other in, a hand touches the small of my back.

“Hey, I was looking for you.” It’s Daniel. By the way he’s looking at me, blatantly confused, he’s entirely oblivious to the rubber band between Trevor and me, ready to snap at any moment.

Trevor’s lips flatten at the interruption, his steady gaze turning cold.

“Sorry, I was in the bathroom. Got distracted on my phone,” I say, blinking away the white dots clouding my vision.

“Dinner is starting. The emcee is asking everyone to take their seats.” Daniel nods toward the entrance to the banquet hall. Before turning us back, he double-takes, holding his hand out toward Trevor. “Apologies, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Daniel. You must be one of Tara’s colleagues?”

Trevor’s expression is unreadable. His jaw shifts, and I’m certain I’d be able to hear his molars grinding together if it weren’t for the loud chatter filtering from the gala room.

“No, he’s not my colleague,” I cut in, nerves aflutter.

“Oh?” Daniel asks, still not picking up on the palpable tension.

The squealing feedback of a microphone pierces the air, followed by the soothing spa voice of tonight’s emcee, one of the hospital switchboard operators, who definitely missed her calling as a stand-up comedian. “Testing . . . Please, for the love of all things holy, can everyone step away from the bar and take your seats—”

“Shit,” I mutter, flustered as Daniel starts steering us back. When I look over my shoulder, Trevor is already walking away. His long strides have taken him three-quarters of the way across the cocktail room. Panicked, I raise my index finger to Daniel, signaling I’ll just be a minute.

I’m a fresh baby deer, wobbling on my day-old, spindly legs. My gown is hiked like the class act I am, dashing after Trevor as he veers left, disappearing into the lobby. In hot pursuit, I take the corner too fast, too furious. My shoulder collides with that of a server’s, nearly knocking over her tray of champagne flutes. I squeak out a muddled yet genuine apology, glancing back to confirm she’s rebalanced her tray. By the time I zero in on Trevor’s back again, he’s nearing the doors.

“Metcalfe,” I call, loud enough to turn the heads of bystanders who probably think I’ve lost my marbles.

His stubborn self doesn’t stop until I’m right behind him, yanking his biceps. “I’m sorry, I’ve gotta go.” He spares me a brief, heavy-hearted look, cautious about looking me directly in the eyes.

“Why are you running away from me?” I demand, louder than intended. The staff behind the lobby desk are giving me cross-eyed glares.

Trevor is desperate to bolt, based on his longing stare toward the door. He rakes a frustrated hand through his locks. “Because— Never mind.”

“Tell me.”