We pull up in front of the event, and I climb out, passing my keys to the valet before I go around to open the passenger door for Olivia.As soon as she steps out, I take her hand, interlacing our fingers.
“Deep breath,” I whisper as we make our way up the red carpet.
Flashes from cameras nearly blind me, but I keep smiling, my fingers laced with Olivia’s.I feel her tense, and I tug her to my side, wrapping my arm around her waist.
“Breathe,” I whisper.“I got you.”
She nods, inhales, slow and shaky, then steadies.
Good girl.
The air snaps with flashes and shouts.
“CJ!Over here!”
“Who’s your date?”
We move down the line.I answer questions with the exact amount of reformed menace PR asked for, and when they turn to Olivia, she delivers one clean quote about kids and community that could fund a wing in six seconds.Cameras love her.Of course they do.
We shuffle along, smiling at the cameras for a few more moments, and then I turn and lead her into the building.
Inside, the ballroom is all soft lights and glittering tablecloths.The Thunder logo glows on the backdrop behind a silent-auction spread that includes a weekend at a lakeside cabin, a signed team jersey, and, inexplicably, a “Private Pasta-Making Class” donated by a restaurant that once asked me to please stop returning bowls as “saves.”
“Pretty,” she says, taking it in.She sounds… impressed.Maybe even hopeful.God, I want to give her ten more rooms like this.
“Want to make a lap?”I ask.“Scope the donors, pretend to judge the canapés?”
Her mouth twitches.“I would never judge canapés.”
We judge the canapés.
“So much pâté,” Olivia sighs, her nose wrinkling as another server comes by with a tray of crackers and pâté.
I laugh, and when she’s distracted, I pull her onto the dance floor.The band has launched into something old and smooth, and I can’t resist the opportunity to hold Olivia in my arms.My hand settles at her waist.She fits there.Like that space was made for her.
She stiffens for exactly one beat and then melts, trust trickling in like warm honey.Her palm rests against my shoulder, her other hand slips into mine, and together we dance.I guide her, small steps, close turns, gentle brushes of our bodies against each other.
“You’re very good at pretending,” she murmurs, eyes up, lashes a little dangerous.
“Who said I’m pretending?”I murmur back.
She gives me the look, the one that says she knows exactly how to shut me down, yet doesn’t quite want to.We move past a cluster of donors, gray hair, old money, polite interest, and I tip my chin at them.
“Three o’clock,” I say.“Faces say they love foundation stones and endowments.We sell them on legacy.”
“You can read donors?”she asks, skeptical but curious.
“I read shooters for a living.”I guide her through a slow turn.“Same tells.They lean forward, they want to commit.They cross their arms, they need reassurance.They smile without eye crinkles, they’re being polite.They ask how many kids you serve and follow up with ‘per week,’ they’re already calculating impact.”
“You’re not entirely useless,” she says.
“Be still my beating heart.”
She tries to hide her smile, but I see it.
We finish the song.She’s flushed, eyes bright, lips parted.I want to kiss her in the middle of this floor with every camera rolling.
I do not.I’m a gentleman.
