We Were Never Meant To Last - Chapter 3
719 Words
Chapter 3 — The Almost Touch
The hotel ballroom was chaos.
Tables were half-draped in linen, chandeliers glinting overhead, staff weaving between ladders and crates. Sophie stood at the center, clipboard in hand, giving instructions over the low buzz of last-minute preparations.
The annual charity gala was the biggest event of the year for the hotel — and thanks to an “unexpected staffing change,” she was now working side-by-side with Ethan to make sure it went flawlessly.
Perfect.
She spotted him across the room, leaning over the bar setup, talking to one of the vendors. His tie was loose again — like he’d been born allergic to buttoning it all the way — and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to his forearms. Strong, tanned forearms.
She hated herself for noticing. Again.
“Blake.” His voice carried easily over the noise as he waved her over. “Problem with the champagne delivery.”
She made her way through the mess, stopping beside him. “What now?”
“They brought the wrong vintage.” He held up the bottle, tilting it toward her. “We can either send it back and risk having nothing, or we serve it and pretend it’s intentional.”
Sophie sighed. “Serve it. Most people can’t tell the difference after their second glass anyway.”
His mouth twitched in amusement. “Practical. I like it.”
She turned to walk away, but his hand brushed her arm — light, almost nothing, but enough to stop her mid-step.
It wasn’t the touch itself that rattled her. It was how familiar it felt.
“Careful,” she said without looking at him, her voice sharper than she intended. “You’re in dangerous territory.”
“Dangerous is where we’ve always been, Sophie.”
The way he said her name — slow, deliberate — made the air between them heavier. She could smell him again, warm and expensive, mixed with something she remembered from the night they’d—
No. She wasn’t going there.
She stepped back, creating space, and forced her attention to the nearest staff member. “Make sure those tablecloths are steamed before the guests arrive,” she said, her tone brisk.
When she glanced at Ethan again, he was smiling. Not the cocky, smug smile from the boardroom. This one was quieter. Almost… patient.
Like he knew something she didn’t.
And that unnerved her more than anything else.
By the time the clock hit 5:30 p.m., the ballroom was nearly perfect. The tables glittered with crystal glassware, the floral arrangements were lush without being gaudy, and the scent of fresh roses hung faintly in the air.
Sophie was making a final lap around the room when a voice stopped her.
“Zip.”
She turned, confused. “What?”
Ethan nodded toward her back. “Your dress. The zipper’s halfway down.”
Her hand shot to the small of her back, and sure enough — the zipper of her fitted black dress had slipped, leaving a dangerous gap between the fabric and her skin.
Heat rushed to her face. “It’s fine. I’ll—”
But he was already behind her.
His fingers brushed the edge of the zipper, warm against her spine. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled it up.
Sophie’s breath caught. She hated how easily her body betrayed her, how the simple glide of his touch could make her knees feel weaker than a thousand-dollar bottle of champagne.
“There,” he murmured, close enough for his breath to stir the loose tendrils of hair at her neck. “Wouldn’t want you… exposed.”
She turned sharply, putting an inch of space between them. “I can handle my own zipper, thanks.”
He smiled, but it wasn’t smug this time. It was dangerous — the kind of smile that promised he wasn’t even close to done.
“Sure you can, Blake,” he said, stepping back. “But why would you want to?”
She grabbed her clipboard like it was armor. “Because unlike you, I know when to stop.”
“Funny,” he said, his eyes raking over her once before he walked away, “I was hoping you didn’t.”
Her pulse was still racing when the first guests began to arrive.
- Writer
