21. Rosalyn

TWENTY-ONE

ROSALYN

My bliss vanishes.

My body tenses.

He called me Rosie.

He knows.

And before I can have a conversation with my champagne brain about how to handle this, my flight response decides for me.

I rush past Nathan.

He fucking knows.

My hands slap against the pantry door, and I shove it open.

"Wait," Nathan calls, but I don't stop.

The door clicks shut behind me, silencing whatever he might have said next.

I have to go.

I have to go right now.

Along with my personal reasons for needing to run, I just let a party guest finger me in a client's pantry.

If I had time to berate myself, I would.

I cannot let the Lovelaces find out. If this got out, it could ruin my business .

I snag my backpack off the kitchen floor and glance at the still-running dishwasher as I hurry past, knowing I can't stay to empty it.

Great, add an incomplete cleanup job to my list of failures tonight.

At least everything else that we brought went home with Presley in her vehicle, so it's just me and my bag that need to disappear.

Not pausing to check if the coast is clear, I jog straight to the front door and pull it open.

Thankfully there's no one to see me rush down the front steps.

As I hurry down the driveway, I pull my phone out and order a ride home. But I make the pickup address a house farther down the street.

I'm not sure if Nathan would actually pursue me out of the house, but I prefer not to stick around and find out.

Pursue me.

Because he remembers who I am.