Now she just needed to get paid.
She looked around and saw that in the time she’d spent setting up the grazing table, the rest of the ballroom had been transformed. Bottles of red and white wine lined the bar, along with crystal wine goblets and champagne glasses. Opulent gift bags and holiday baskets brimmed with candied nuts and pears wrapped in gold waited for guests at a table near the entrance to the massive room. The singers hummed near the fire while the rest of the staff stood in position, ready to greet guests with flutes of bubbly champagne.
Marissa realized the party must be starting soon. She had to get out of there. Heat spread up her neck as she began to panic. She was coated in hummus, pesto, and sweet jams. She was certainly not dressed for a black-tie party, and she was pretty sure the Graffs didn’t want their caterer hanging around.
The question was, who was planning on cutting her a check?
She scanned the room. No one appeared to be in charge, so she went to ask the bartender.
“Hey, sorry to bug you, but do you happen to know how we get paid?”
The bartender twisted a cork from a bottle of merlot. “Sorry, no. I don’t get paid until the end of the party.”
“Right.”
“You could check with him.” The bartender pointed to William Graff, standing at the piano deep in conversation with a petite blond woman wearing a slinky red dress. Her sleekhighlights probably cost as much as what Marissa was going to make at tonight’s event.
Marissa fiddled with her ponytail and placed one hand over the large mustard stain on her jeans. The last person she wanted to ask for money was William Graff, but what choice did she have?
She inched toward the piano.
Sweat beaded on her forehead. Was it hot in here from the fire? Even her ears felt hot.
The woman had one hand on William’s arm and practically hung on his every word.
Marissa hung back, hoping that a moment would arise where she could casually interrupt their conversation.
“Wills, you would not believe how excited people are about Passport to the Holidays this year. I was in the tasting room yesterday, and so many people are losing their minds over the prize money. It’s fifty grand. What’s the big deal? The winner is maybe going to bring in thirty thousand dollars after taxes. That’s nothing.”
Olivia had texted her about this.
Uh, nothing? I beg to differ, Marissa wanted to say.
She didn’t want to have to ask William for payment, let alone in the middle of this conversation, but she wanted to hear more. Fifty thousand dollars was certainly not nothing to her.
She scooted closer.
William swirled buttery wine in his glass. “I guess that’s what money does. I read in the paper that they’re trying to draw an even larger tourist crowd this year, hence giving away cash.”
Marissa was familiar with Passport to the Holidays. The scavenger hunt was a glorified way to get locals and tourists to visit shops, wineries, restaurants, and pubs around town. Every year during the holidays, the Chamber of Commerce printed special passports. People had ten days to get a stamp at eachparticipating business. Some locations really got into the event, putting together unique hidden clues and making guests jump through hoops to get their stamp. Others simply checked off their slot on the passport for anyone who showed up.
She craned her neck forward slightly, hoping to hear more about the cash. As she did, her hand slipped on the side of the piano, accidentally tipping over a flute of champagne. She watched slowly as the glass teetered off the edge and then shattered on the floor into tiny, shiny pieces.
Oh no.
William swiveled his head in her direction. His eyes drifted from the broken glass to Marissa, and he grinned. “We can’t keep meeting like this.”
Marissa’s neck flamed. She could feel splotches of heat erupt across her cheeks.
“Did you need something? I mean, other than a broom?” he asked, his voice low and filled with amusement. “If making you blush is part of the package, you might need a dustpan, too, huh?”
Marissa gulped back embarrassment, willing her cheeks to stop betraying her. “Uh, I was going to ask about payment,” she fumbled, casting a quick glance toward her display. “For the grazing table.”
The woman in the skimpy red dress gave Marissa a look of mild interest after letting her eyes linger on Marissa’s outfit. “You’re the caterer?”
“Yep. Yes, Cheese, that’s me.”
That’s me?
