“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s go make sure you’re still the best speech-giver in the room.”
Just then, the emcee’s voice crackled through the speakers.
“And now,” he announced, “please welcome the president of the Silver Ridge Icehawks to present tonight’s donation to Timberline Shelter—and invite our featured guest to the stage.”
Colton’s hand fell away.
My stomach did a complete somersault.
It was time.
Chapter eight
Colton: Tuxes and Tension
Riley’s eyes scanned the crowd, then darted back to the index cards in her hands. Her breathing was shallow, and her lips parted, as if she wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.
I’d seen that look before—on teammates about to take a shootout shot in front of twenty thousand fans. But this wasn’t a teammate. This was Riley—steady, confident, bossy-as-hell Riley—and right now, she looked like she might bolt.
I stepped in, closing the distance between us.
“Hey,” I said quietly, catching her hands before she could crumple the cards completely. “Look at me.”
She did, slowly. Her eyes were wide, and I could feel the tremor in her fingers.
“You have three points to make,” I reminded her. “You remember them, right?”
“Yes,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Okay then. Just be Riley. You’ve got this.”
She opened her mouth to thank me, but nothing came out. I grabbed the glass of water from the table behind us and handed it to her.
“Here. Drink. Then go. And be ready for me to say ‘I told you so’ when everyone’s clapping like you just saved a hundred puppies in a single breath.”
That got a small, shaky laugh out of her. She elbowed me lightly, her shoulders relaxing a little.
“Thank you.”
I nodded once, keeping my mouth shut. If I said what I was thinking—about how gorgeous she looked right now—I might not be able to stop. And that was dangerous.
Because Riley, at that moment, was very hard to ignore.
I gave her a little nudge toward the stage, then turned and made my way to the bar.
I grabbed a soda to keep my hands busy and leaned back against the counter, watching as she approached the mic. Her hair was down tonight—long and loose, swaying as she walked. It bounced slightly with every step, catching the soft lights from the stage and throwing back gold.
She wasn’t in work boots or jeans tonight. She wore a dress—simple, elegant, but somehow completely Riley. And heels, which made no sense with who she usually was, but also made perfect sense. She didn’t look like someone trying to be fancy. She looked like someone who knew exactly who she was—and didn’t care what anyone else thought.
I am not looking at Ryan’s little sister. Or the person who runs the rescue. Or the woman in charge of my PR rehab.
I am looking at Riley. The woman who is making my heart pound.
I can't tear my eyes away from her.
And it's freaking me out a little.
Somewhere between the elbow jab and her whispering thank you, something had definitely changed.
