She fiddled with the delicate edges of her mask as he ripped his off, choosing to ignore his comment about her luck. He was clearly way out of her league. She made sure no hint of that showed on her face, and lounged a little more obviously. “Honestly,” she mused, “I shouldn’t think any of them, unless you try to start something. I don’t think it’s that kind of party.”
Dear gods, his cheekbones are unfair. Of all the places to meet someone, it had to be here, where it would never mean anything and never go anywhere. Summer arches one eyebrow, superior and amused. “Did you gatecrash? Are you expecting to be thrown out?”
“It’s always that kind of party with this lot.” There’s a hint of an edge, bitterness in his tone as he spoke, peering down at the dollar mask he turned in his hands idly. He hates everything about it; he feels almost as if he’s hiding again.
“I’m more of a plus-one to a plus-one. I guess that falls somewhere in-between being invited and ‘gatecrashing,’ as you so-graciously put it.”
Her gaze changed at the tone of his voice, arrogance falling away like the mask it was. Leaning forward, she scrutinised his face, noting how he fidgeted with the cheap mask.
Gently, Summer asks, “If you don’t want to be here, why did you come? For that matter, why did you stay?” She wanted to step closer again, offer an ease for that edge. It’s an instinct that’s hard to repress, but she does.