Shit. Archer ripped out his earpiece and then did the same to Elle’s, stuffing both in his pocket.
She shrugged and walked away, leaving him on the dance floor. Watching her go, an odd feeling cranked over in his chest. Irritation, he decided. Frustration. The woman got to him like no one else.
And yet he’d kept tabs on her, watching her back. He couldn’t explain why, but apparently old habits died hard.
Did she ever think about that night? She’d never made a single reference to it, not once. And he’d never brought it up, not wanting to bring her back to a bad place.
When he walked off the dance floor and headed toward the bar, she was there, right there, picking up the wrap she’d left. Something fell from it and hit the floor.
They both crouched low at the same time but Archer beat her to it. When he realized what he held, he lifted his head and stared at her in shock.
It was the small pocket knife he’d given her all those years ago.
Which meant she did think about that night.