Which meant that, by the time Phoebe had finally whipped her barbed reply at the server asking where the woman’s boyfriend was, fully intent on humiliating the charming girl, a curious solution presented itself. One that felt oddly . . . fun.
Alec smiled, took hold of the idea, and tackled that sucker to the ground.
“Is he here?” Phoebe asked, making a show of scanning the room for someone.
Then he stepped forward. “Yes.”
He’d meant to speak the word with a fair bit of venom, knowing it would grate on Phoebe’s nerves about as much as hearing her voice did to him, but as was the confounded way of the evening, that went awry when the server gasped and locked her spine as still as a goalpost.
Och, hell. He’d meant to rescue her and fix his fuck-up, hadn’t he? Not traumatize her further.
But before the doubt had a chance to creep in, Alec was startled by a boisterous cheer from the man escorting the chairwoman.
“Holy smokes, I don’t believe it. You’re Alec Elms!” The S in his last name was accompanied by an alarming amount of nose whistle as the man stepped forward and, with two hands, encircled Alec’s fist and began pumping his arm like the bloke was tapping a freaking well. “Star forward for Great Britain Sevens. I’ve never seen a flanker tackle the pitch better than this fellow, let me tell you. Poised to win the championship this year, too. What you fellows are doing out there is pure magic. Arthur Doley of Doley Enterprise Solutions.”
“Appreciate it. Thank you. I don’t often find such avid rugby fans in the States, especially on the East Coast.”
“Oh, I know, and it’s a damn shame. Well, you’ll be happy to hear I’ve been working to change that. Just sent in my sizable annual contribution to USA Sevens HQ, along with a few minor suggestions on some outreach endeavors I’m willing to help them with that I believe could really do a lot to positively impact the game’s position in the mainstream sports media here.”
Alec nodded painfully while trying to discreetly wipe his sweatier palm on any bit of linen in reach. He settled for the tip of his tie that he’d managed to conceal beneath his suit coat.
If he had to hear one more wealthy benefactor spout off about their desire to save rugby, he was going to tackle the ice sculpture and try to get pinned beneath it.
“I’m close friends with several guys over at key broadcasting partners in New York,” Arthur added in the seemingly ignorant way people from old money often rambled. “Old buddies from college. Actually,” he said, sliding close enough for the boozy fumes to carry on his breath, “I know I don’t look like it so much anymore, but I did play a bit of rugby at my alma mater.” When Alec didn’t immediately respond, Arthur clarified, “Center. And I filled in for scrum-half when I needed to.”
A soft throat clear was the Pavlov’s bell Arthur required to abandon the rugby talk, apparently.
“Oh, let me introduce you to Monica Freeland, the chairwoman of West Meadow’s Crystal Christmas Ball.”
Damn, the man was well-trained. It’d be impressive if it wasn’t also a tad terrifying. If that slight woman could get a man like Arthur off the runaway train his mind had taken him down with no more than a simple nonverbal gesture, what the hell could she do with actual words?
“A pleasure,” Alec said, though when he went to shake her hand, he hesitated. She’d offered the back of her hand, not her palm. Fucking hell. Just what kind of royalty did this woman think she was?
Alec accepted her hand and, at an utter loss for what to do next, bowed over it before stepping way the heck back lest he get caught in whatever magic web the woman spun that had already nabbed Arthur.
“You are Ms. Silver’s boyfriend?” The expectant brightness that lit Monica’s face had all the anticipation of a fire sparkler at a Hogmanay festival . . . Right before the bloody thing exploded prematurely, taking precious fingers with it.
Alec risked a glance at the Ms. Silver in question, who had yet to speak a single word, and blanched. Oh, Lord. What have I done?
When he had spied her across the dimly lit ballroom earlier, he’d had no notion of the finer tells her features were capable of.
Or how charming they were.
Petrified furrows between her dark brows drew her wide eyes into focus. Her gaze darted from him to Monica and back in a cartoonish gesture made even more adorable by the deep blush staining her cheeks. She was clearly looking for an anchor or an explanation, but her frame’s stiffness belied the fear of reaching out for one just yet.
If this woman could make terrified look pleasing, what did joy look like on such a pleasant face?
For a moment, Alec latched on to her fear as well. Had he made a mistake? Had he misread the room and selfishly declared himself a savior no one had asked for?
Then there was the not-so-delicate matter of Phoebe, who had been staring daggers into the side of his face since he’d opened his mouth. It was only a matter of time before she lashed out and claimed the board for her own game.
God, did he hate mind tricks. Give him something to hit and he was golden. This crap, with all the mental warfare and cunning underpinnings? That had always been Phoebe’s arena, and it was bloody brutal.
Alec chewed the inside of his mouth and waited for . . . for what? For the catering server to accept him, a creepy stranger, as an accomplice? For Phoebe to ruin whatever might be left of the young woman’s reputation? To stand in front of an influential couple and run the highlight reel of Alec’s rugby career down to the final frames, where he’d taken the worst tackle of his life and may not have his contract renewed at the end of the season?
His possible final season?
What the hell are you doing, Alec? Come the fuck on, man. You made your stand. Let it go. Let her go. You and Phoebe are over.
