She blushed under my stare. “What?”

“I’m just really amazed by you. That’s hard to stand up like that for someone you love and today you have your event…how are you dealing with all of this?”

“Honestly, except for being tired, I feel really good.” It was her turn to squeeze my hand. “The only thing I’m worrying about now is you and my brother.”

I pulled my hand away from hers. “I’m miserable enough without the guilt trip, thanks.” I studied my shoes, afraid that any more show of emotion might wreck me.

“He told us what he did to you.”

My eyes flew back up to meet hers. “What?”

“During mom’s intervention. He said that if we had any hope of being a family, then we needed to face our flaws and own up to our mistakes. He went back to therapy this week, and I think his doctor encouraged him to be open with us. So he owned up to what he did to you.” Her expression grew serious and sad. “I’m sorry he did that to you, Laynie. Really sorry. I’m not going to defend him. But I will say that he is full of regret.”

“I’m…” My throat tightened. “Dammit, Mira, you’re making me cry.”

She grasped my upper arms. “Don’t cry! Then I’ll cry and that will be a disaster. No more serious talk, except to say I love you. Thank you for being here.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

***

There was a little more to the modeling gig than standing and smiling. I also had to walk down the short runway, pose, and return. While the place seemed to be crawling with models, there were only seven of us in the show. We were able to run through it enough times in rehearsal that by the time the actual event started, I wasn’t so nervous that I couldn’t perform.

Frankly, I was happy for an emotion other than grief. I clung to it. Wrapped it around me like a blanket.

At two, the doors were opened and the event began. It wasn’t a big hurrah like the charity fashion show Sophia Pierce had hosted, but was elegant and important in its own way. Mira was a beautiful bird, floating around the room, talking to big name fashion designers and top clients that had been invited.

Then there was the press—they’d been limited to invitation only and were sequestered in an area near the stage, which made them less intimidating. I never got close enough to them to be hounded with their questions. If they wanted to know about me and Hudson, they’d have to ask him.

Would they even ask? When the next girl showed up on his arm in the limelight, would they ask what happened to that nightclub manager the same way they asked about Celia in front of me?

There were so many awful things about that scenario that I had to block it out with a glass of champagne.

At a quarter to three, I lined up with the other models along the horizontal length of the stage. This is where we stood while each person walked the runway. My placement as last in the show made me wish we were walking on from offstage instead of waiting there the whole time. It felt like hours that I had to stand still and smile while the other women walked and posed. Stacy described each item, crediting the designer and then explaining the individual alterations done by the boutique to make the outfit perfect for the wearer.

Finally it was my turn. I walked to the end of the runway with a smile that was surprisingly authentic. Butterflies stirred in my stomach as I stood at the end while Stacy talked about my dress. Photographers were flashing bulbs at me, but the room wasn’t dark as in a typical fashion show, and I could actually see the faces of the onlookers as I cast my gaze around the room.

That’s how I spotted Hudson so easily.

There, in the back, leaning against the wall. His hair was mussed and he was underdressed in a t-shirt and jeans. His eyes were pinned on me—hell, the whole room’s focus was on me—but his were the only eyes I felt. Even across that distance I could sense that electrical current, the simmer in my belly that spurred the butterflies to dance more frantically than before.

Our gazes locked and without thinking to let it happen, my smile widened.

God, it was good to see him.

Then Stacy finished her speech, the crowd applauded, and it was time to turn around and walk back to my place along the back of the stage. With my back to him, the momentary elation disappeared, and all the shit rumbled back over me like a Mack truck. The deceit, the hurt, the garbage—and he wasn’t supposed to be there!

Though I was the final model, I had to remain on stage while Stacy introduced Mira, and then while Mira spoke about her renovations and made her acknowledgements. I was still in the limelight, but I couldn’t stop fidgeting and wiping my sweaty palms along my skirt.

He’s here, he’s here. What do I do?

I tried to keep my attention on Mira, but my eyes kept darting back to Hudson. Every time, he was already looking at me. It wouldn’t be easy to escape. Especially because I couldn’t just run out—my purse and belongings were still in the back. I could leave my clothes, but I needed money for a cab or my subway card. He was across the room, though, and there were lots of people—perhaps I could sneak away before he got to me.

The minute the final applause began, I took off. As discreetly as possible, I slipped off the stage and to the back hall, hoping Hudson didn’t see me and follow.

Or hoping he did follow. I couldn’t quite decide.

Of course my stuff was in the last dressing room in the hall, but I made it there without anyone behind me. My hands were shaking as I gathered my clothes from the floor where I’d left them. Looking around, I realized I had nothing to carry them in. Shit.

I could change. Or get them later.

Later.

I should have at least folded them, but there wasn’t time for that. Instead, I set them on the dressing room chair, grabbed my purse from the corner of the room where I’d stowed it under my clothing, and turned to go.

But there he was, filling the doorframe.

My shoulders sagged, but my stupid heart did a little dance.

Dammit, feelings were confusing.

He looked even better up close. Was it possible he’d gotten more attractive in our time apart? His blue-gray t-shirt hugged his muscles, which seemed more pronounced than I’d remembered. His faded dark jeans hung low around his trim hips. His eyes were soft and sad with bags underneath them that matched his sister’s. Matched mine.

And the way he looked at me…as if I were more than a silly, emotional, broken girl. As if I were someone who mattered. As if I were someone he loved.