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Three players with their wives.

A waiter passing with champagne.

Nobody is bothering her. Nobody is even talking to her.

Still, I find myself searching for some asshole responsible for putting that look on her face.

Which is fucking ridiculous.

I don't know this woman. She isn't speaking to anyone.

No one is crowding her or touching her or doing anything that warrants the sudden, inexplicable urge I have to cross the ballroom and remove the problem.

There isn't a problem.

Except she looks like she'd rather be almost anywhere else.

And for some reason, I don't like that.

One hand smooths down the side of her dress. It’s a nervous gesture. She catches herself halfway through and immediately drops it.

Her lips press together. Those big hazel eyes sweep across the room again, and for one unguarded second, I see it.

Uncertainty.

Not fear. Not exactly insecurity.

Just a tiny crack in the armor.

Like maybe she's wondering whether she belongs here.

The thought makes something tighten unexpectedly in my chest. Because she does.

Hell, from where I'm standing, she's the only person in this entire goddamn ballroom worth looking at.

But she doesn't know that.

And before I can examine why I suddenly want her to, the moment is gone.

Her shoulders straighten.

Her chin lifts.

The softness doesn't disappear, but something stronger settles over it.

Purpose. Focus. Determination.

There you are.

I almost smile.

Interesting.

Very fucking interesting.

She doesn't know I'm watching her. I'm sure of that now.

There's no performance in any of this. No coy glance in my direction. No conveniently timed smile. No attempt to catch my eye.