Page 80 of Last First Date

Throughout the evening, men approached me. Compliments flowed freely. I found myself at a loss for words with all the attention on me. I wasn’t used to it, and while it was flattering, it was also overwhelming.

One man, impeccably dressed and exuding confidence, leaned in to speak over the music. “Waverly, you were amazing last night. Your presence on the runway was captivating.”

“Thank you,” I replied, a bit taken aback. “I appreciate it.”

I glanced around, looking for Knox, who had been by my side up until about thirty minutes ago.

I found him across the room, engaged in a conversation with a striking brunette. He seemed engrossed, his attention focused on her. A pang of jealousy shot through me at the sight. Was this how he felt when other men complimented me?

I quickly shook off the feeling, reminding myself we weren’t a couple. He was free to talk to anyone he chose to.

“Are you from New York?” my new admirer asked.

“No, Utah.”

He looked surprised. “Utah?” he repeated, raising a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Well, you certainly don’t strike me as someone from Utah.”

I laughed, not sure how to respond. There was something about the way he said it that made me feel like he was subtly mocking me, but I didn’t let it get to me. “Yeah, well, there’s more to Utah than the stereotypes you might have in mind.”

“I have no doubt about that,” he retorted, his eyes flicking over my shoulder to scan the room for a moment before returning back to me with a sly smile. “I hope that means you will be sticking around. I would love to see you on more runways.”

“Oh no,” I said, laughing. “This was a one-time thing.”

Eventually he moved on and I found myself alone. Knox was hanging out in a corner by himself. I met his gaze. He stared at me for several seconds before looking away.

Another man approached and gave me a glass of champagne. “You looked thirsty.”

“Thank you,” I said, taking the glass. The man introduced himself as Julian, a photographer for Vogue. We chatted for some time about fashion and photography, and his passion was so infectious that I found myself being drawn into the conversation despite not knowing much about either subject.

Across the room, I noticed Knox watching us intently, an unreadable expression on his face. He’d started another conversation, this time with a blonde woman in a red dress who looked suspiciously familiar from some movie or other. But every so often, his gaze would drift back toward me.

I excused myself and approached Knox once he was nursing a drink in a secluded corner. “Hey, everything okay?”

He glanced at me, his expression unreadable. “Yeah, just enjoying the party.”

I could sense there was more beneath the surface, a tension that hadn’t been there before. “You seem a bit off. Is something bothering you?”

He sighed and took a sip of his drink. “It’s nothing. Just not my scene, I guess.”

“I thought this was your scene,” I said. “Didn’t you tell me you were anxious to get back to New York and the nightlife?”

His eyes met mine. “Yeah,” he said, though his tone suggested a different answer. He took another sip of his drink, seemingly deep in thought.

For a moment, silence stretched between us. The music and party chatter were distant.

There was tension between us once again. It wasn’t sexual tension. It felt like he was angry with me.

“You know, you don’t have to stay if you’re not comfortable. We can leave.”

He looked at me, a mix of frustration and something else in his eyes. “I’m fine. Just go enjoy yourself. You have several admirers who are waiting to talk to you.”

“Are you jealous?” I snapped.

“Why would I be jealous?”

“I don’t know. Because people are looking at me and not the former underwear model.”

His cheek twitched, and he looked away. His jaw clenched, clearly not finding my comment as amusing as I did. “That’s not it,” he muttered, his tone clipped.