“That it?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. I extend my hand to show him my bracelet. “This goes okay, right?”
He takes a long drink of his scotch, looks me up and down and scoffs before telling me, “You look like a cheap whore.”
My face falls, my heart clunks to a halt in my chest, and embarrassment rises to my cheeks in a burning red flush.
“Thanks, Dad,” I choke out as I hurry to grab my things and go to the door.
It’s too late to change, now, so I guess this is it.
I sip on sparkling cider as the driver Colt sent for me pulls into a long line of cars waiting to park or be valeted, and I look out my window to take in the sheer number of people already pouring inside the building.
There have to be a hundred people out here, all dressed in their most glamorous outfits and looking like a million bucks. I don’t know what I expected a horde of uber-wealthy art collectors to look like, but somehow this still doesn’t quite match it.
The car comes to a stop in front of a red carpet and I carefully step out, trying to hide my awe at my surroundings. This is old hat for all of these people, but I’m floundering like a fish out of water. Just as I’m about to turn tail and dive back into the car, I hear Colt’s warm voice.
“There she is,” he says as he approaches me. He looksgood.
He’s wearing a fresh tuxedo, his hair is neatly styled, and his smile is so bright it’s practically fucking sparkling. He takes my hand in his and steps back to get a look at me.
“Wow, you look…” he lifts my hand to give me a twirl. When I’m facing him again, he breathes, “Incredible.”
“It’s not too much?” I ask, more than a little self conscious.
He shakes his head and points to my cane. “You’re gonna have to use that to beat the men away.” I let out a surprised laugh and grab his bicep. “I mean it,” he says, “you’re exquisite.”
There’s a shimmer in his eyes that sends warmth radiating through me, and I have to put a hand on my stomach to calm the butterflies suddenly taking flight in there.
“You don’t clean up half bad yourself, Mr. Fowler,” I tell him with a playful nudge.
Flashing that brilliant smile at me, he offers his elbow. “Shall we?”
I loop my arm through his and let him lead me into the party. The main room is bursting with life and color, the sprawling space decorated with rich jewel tones, music pouring through the air and bodies milling about – chatting, drinking, eating tiny foods off of equally tiny plates.
Directly in front of us is a large fountain filled with champagne that pours over three tiers, which at least five people have stopped in front of to fill their flutes since we walked in.
Colt’s eyes fall on a woman walking past us, wrapped in a skin-tight dress that leaves little to the imagination, and I’m suddenly, almost painfully, very aware of my arm looped in his, and of the fact that at the end of the day, I am just his assistant.
“Do— are there many people from work here?”
“Oh, no,” he tells me, “just Davis, you and myself.” He waves a hand toward the crowd of people. “This is all about the socialites and the stupidly wealthy.”
“Like you?” I ask, a brow arched at him.
“I’m not stupid with my wealth,” he winks. “These are the people that we want to become members. So we can take a little piece of that wealth and turn it into more.”
“So you dazzle them with shiny things like you’re befriending a bunch of ravens.”
He roars out a laugh and looks at me with a smile, telling me, “Exactly, you’re getting it.”
I wrap my arm a little tighter in his, letting those butterflies have free rein inside of me. No one else from work is here, tonight, not even Emmett. His own son wasn’t invited, but he chose to bring me. I don’t want to let it get to my head, but god, this feels incredible. Is this what it’s like to be high? This sense of euphoria that, maybe, I really am capable of being something to someone?
We walk through the party, mostly so Colt can network and mingle with those stupidly wealthy people he mentioned, until we come to a stop at a bar. He talks to the bartender for a second and we wait until two glasses are set down in front of us. Colt hands me a glass with a foggy-looking beverage inside, garnished with a squiggly slice of cucumber on a spear, and he picks up his own glass, filled with a dark liquid.
“Colt, I don’t drink,” I remind him.
“It’s virgin.”
