A quiet, hollow disappointment sinks in my chest. His hand slides gently around my waist, but I shift back, forcing space between us.
No matehood, no family,I say.If that’s what he wants, you have to give him time to find it.
Spare the both of you pain. Go.
"Did I do something wrong?" he asks softly.
I shake my head. "No. You are lovely—it’s me. Thank you. I just… have others to meet."
A faint frown flickers across his lips, but he doesn’t pull away immediately. His hand lingers over mine, holding me there, as if he is waiting for something more.
I look back at him, offering one last smile.
"If you don’t find a new partner, come back to me," he says, his grin warm and hopeful. "I'd love nothing more than to spend the evening soaking up your presence."
Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he lifts my hand to his lips and presses a kiss to my knuckles.
A part of me wants to stay.
Instead, I push out of the tent, stepping into the swirling chaos, and realize a crowd has formed while I was in the tent.
I catch the gaze of a few other women waiting in line. A sharp twinge of jealousy blooms in my chest, but I swallow it and keep walking.
With all the sincerity in my heart, I hope he finds what he is lookingfor.
I barely pass two tents, head down, before I collide—hard—into a broad chest.
Solid. Unyielding. A head and a half taller than me.
His arm slides around my back, steadying me as I step back, breath catching as I look up—right into Vann’s scowl. His gaze shifts, following the path I’d been looking at before moments ago.
"Your cheeks are flushed," he says bluntly.
The world around me spins. I can’t even manage a response.
"Why haven’t you come to my tent?" he demands.
I frown. "So you did decide to come. Good for you. Meet any interesting women?"
"I thought you would at least visit,” he continues.
I smooth out my skirts, taking another stuttering breath. "Which number was your tent?"
"Twenty-four," he says abruptly.
I pull my list from my pocket, scanning the numbers. "It wasn’t on here. I would’ve visited if I’d known."
Before I can react, he snatches the paper from my hands.
Again, he takes my things. He crosses into the bubble I keep around myself.
"Vann—"
He groans. "Whoever wrote this had atrocious script."
I roll my eyes. "Oh?"
He narrows his gaze at me, flipping the page toward my face. The fourteen is poorly written, nearly unreadable. And now I see the gentle curve at the top of the first character.