This man might be Owen and Elliot’s dream investor. He might be their ticket to growing their company and giving kids a start in tech but, my God, he’s foul.
All I want to do is tell him he’s an offensive ass and throw my remaining drink in his stupid face. But I can’t do anything. Can’t say a thing. How would I live with myself if I jeopardized their deal?
Over his shoulder, Owen’s head is dipped toward Elliot in intense conversation. They’re oblivious to everyone around them.
Maybe I can put Archie straight nicely. “The thing is, I’m not—”
“And this is a formal affair, dear.” He leans back and looks down his nose at me. “You should probably be wearing something a little more appropriate than a dishrag.” He waggles his finger at the top that is my pride and joy.
Rage, shame, humiliation, and hurt swirl together and eat me alive from the inside out.
With every ounce of strength I have, I force my mouth to stay firmly shut while I fight the sting in my eyes and the constriction in my throat. I will not give this superior jerk the satisfaction of seeing me cry.
After everything I’ve tried to put behind me to come here tonight, it turns out it’s exactly as I’d feared. It’s exactly the same as Alastair’s parents mocking my knitwear business, and me never being good enough for their la-di-da, rolling-in-it friends.
I’ll always stick out like a sore thumb. Never be good enough.
Owen looks up from his deep discussion with Elliot and catches my eye. He raises his eyebrows as if surprised to see me. Then his mouth drops open as a look of horror creeps across his face. Guess he doesn’t want me talking to ass-face in case I wreck everything.
Archie’s self-satisfied smirk makes my furious heart thump so hard my chest moves in time with it, and I worry for the safety of the glasses I’m clutching way too hard.
Behind him, Owen tries to make his way toward us but is stopped by a middle-aged woman in a voluminous floral top, who strokes his shoulder and air-kisses him while batting her eyelashes excessively.
Unable to speak through the giant boulder in my throat, I turn back toward the door. I push my way back between Horse Woman and Cologne Man, and come face to expensive-silk-tie with Max.
He raises his palms and leans back. “Whoa, hey.”
“Oh, shit.” I shake my head in frustration. I just need a clear path to get the hell out of here. “I mean, sorry. Sorry, Max.”
His face is blurry through the tears I’m barely managing to hold back. But I can see well enough to detect a hint of compassion in it as he puts his hands on my shoulders and looks down at me with a crinkled brow. Perhaps he does have some human emotions hidden behind the bravado.
His voice softens. “Are you okay? Is something wrong?”
I’m hot and shaking with panic and need to get out of here. I thrust the full glass of champagne I’m still holding at him. “Can you give this to Owen? I have to…go.”
He takes the glass from me. “Go? Already?”
“I mean…go check on Elsa. Thanks.”
He steps back to let me by.
I pick my way through the packed foyer, put Archie’s empty glass on a side table, and run up the stairs.
Halfway up, an elderly man in a tweed jacket and a yellow bowtie stops me.
“Amazing, isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
He points at a faded black-and-white photo hanging on the wall. “This place. Built in 1856.”
I force my eyes to focus and see it’s an old picture of Blythe Manor.
“The people Jim and Maggie’s boys brought in to restore this place were real craftsmen,” he says, lifting his gaze to the ceiling. “They’ve done a fabulous job.”
“Right, yes.” I move up to the next stair. “Must go.”
“I was an architect for fifty years.” He points up at the coving then strokes the wooden banister. “You rarely see work like this.”
