She laughed, the sound making my heart do acrobatics in my chest. “I appreciate your restraint.”
The drive to the gala was filled with easy conversation, neither of us mentioning the couch incident, though I caught her glancing at my lips more than once. Each time she did, heat pooled in my stomach, memories of our kiss flashing through my mind. It forced me to have to think about other things, like the petunia-pooping cat Gram had mentioned and Norbert the butler in a speedo. When those failed, I shifted my mind to business deals I had coming up. That did the job.
The event planners had transformed the Metropolitan Museum of Art for the evening, its grand entrance flanked by red carpets and photographers. As we pulled up, Anica tensed beside me.
“There are a lot of cameras,” she observed, her voice carefully neutral.
“Occupational hazard of these events,” I replied, handing my keys to the valet. “Just smile and keep walking. They’re vultures, but harmless ones. And if anyone asks, you don’t have to answer. That’s what publicists are for.”
“I don’t have a publicist,” she pointed out.
“Tonight, you can borrow mine.” I came around to her side of the car, offering my hand. “Ready?”
She took a deep breath, then placed her hand in mine. “Nope, let’s go.”
The moment we stepped onto the red carpet, the flashes began. Photographers called out my name, and occasionally Anica’s—apparently someone had done their homework—as we made our way toward the entrance. I kept my hand on the small of her back, a gesture that was partly protective and partly selfish. I liked touching her, liked the subtle reminder that she was here with me.
“Callan! Who’s your date?” a reporter called out.
“Anica Marcel,” I replied smoothly. “The most talented wedding planner in Manhattan.”
“Are those wedding bells we hear?” another shouted.
“The only bells you’re hearing are the ones I installed in your head the last time you printed something about my love life,” I shot back with a smile that took the sting out of the words. Mostly.
Anica relaxed against my hand as we continued past the press line. By the time we reached the main entrance, she was almost smiling.
“That wasn’t so bad,” she admitted.
“The night is young,” I warned her. “The real sharks are inside, disguised as socialites and philanthropists.”
“Way to make me feel better,” she deadpanned.
“It’s a gift,” I agreed. “Along with my devastatingly handsome looks and Greek god abs.”
She groaned. “What. An. Ego.”
“It’s not the only big thing about me,” I whispered in her ear as I guided her into the gala. She elbowed me. I couldn’t stop grinning.
The Great Hall had been transformed into a glittering wonderland of lights and flowers, with elegantly dressed attendees already mingling over champagne. A string quartet played softly in one corner, and waiters circulated with trays of hors d’oeuvres that probably cost more per bite than most people’s weekly grocery budget.
I watched Anica take it all in, her eyes wide. “This is magnificent,” she said. “The lighting design alone is incredible.”
“Only you would notice the lighting design before the ice sculpture of a cherub riding a dolphin,” I teased, nodding toward the elaborate centerpiece.
“Professional hazard,” she shrugged. “I’m mentally taking notes for future events.”
“Well, feel free to critique anything you like. I’m on the planning committee, so I can pass along feedback.”
She looked at me in surprise. “You’re on the planning committee? For a children’s hospital fundraiser?”
“Did you forget that I also had the Pediatric Cancer event a couple weeks ago? I helped with that one too. Is that so hard to believe?” I asked, feigning offense. “I do occasionally participate in activities that don’t involve making money or looking pretty. Sometimes I feed the ducks. Sometimes I pet dogs in the park.”
“It’s just... unexpected,” she admitted.
“I’m full of surprises,” I assured her, snagging two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and handing one to her. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” she agreed, touching her glass to mine.
