Christine's P.O.V.
That unmistakable scent of tobacco—masculine, smoky, and laced with cologne—hit me before I even looked up. I knew exactly who it was.
Elliot.
He held me firmly in his arms, anchoring me with that intense gaze of his. The way he looked at me always turned my legs to jelly. His lips were slightly parted, still glistening from whatever he had been drinking—probably whiskey or vodka, neat. He was never a man for cocktails, and he considered beer a lowly drink unless it was as dark as his soul.
His mouth was moving, but I couldn't hear him. I was too lost in that face—like it had been carved by the hands of a master sculptor. I sighed softly in response to something I hadn't even registered. He frowned, tilting his head, almost as if he didn't recognize me.
"Christine…!" A voice called from behind. It was Darius.
I turned just in time to see him pushing through the crowd toward us.
My body stiffened instinctively. I clung to Elliot's jacket lapels like they were m
