“That may be so, but it doesn’t change the fact that I don’t belong here.”
He turns to me, warmth suffusing my cheeks as he takes them between his hands. “You have every right to be here. And if anyone makes you feel less, you can tell them what a bunch of arrogant, entitled asses they are.”
My lips twitch at the corners, nerves dissipating at his callback. He’s right. I had no problem calling him out on his assholery. Why am I so afraid of a bunch of rich people in fancy dresses? Probably because I’m not in my comfort zone. I’m not on the ice. I’m not on a live or strategizing a social media plan. This is their world. All I need to do is blend in. Play by their rules for a couple of hours.
We share a soft, conspiratorial look, and it’s just enough to keep the panic at bay.
The strut in my walk remains until we’re surrounded. It starts slowly. One woman approaches Beau with air kisses. Another slips her arm around his back. And then he’s swept into a conversation with two boys’ club looking dudes. They start throwing around words like “acquisition” and “portfolio” like we’re in a boardroom instead of a ballroom.
He throws me an apologetic look over his shoulder as he’s pulled away, and I nod, pasting on a smile that doesn’t go past the surface.
Now it’s just me. And a room full of people who think I’m a prop or a gold digger. It’s probably unreasonable to think they’re all staring at me, judging me, but I can’t help it.
“I’ll be back,” he mouths.
I nod, but there’s a strange hollowness blooming in my chest.
Left alone, I drift toward the edge of the room, looking for some corner to hide away in. My heels are pinching my toes, andthe champagne glass in my hand is slippery with condensation. A waiter in a pristine, starched white shirt gives me an offended look when a laugh bursts out at his offering. A tray of crab cakes. Thanks, Beth.
I find a tall marble pillar and press my back against it, breathing shallowly. The music changes, softening into a familiar swell of strings and piano. A waltz. Do these people actually know how to dance to that?
“May I?” Relief floods through me at the familiar voice. Did past me ever picture that voice being the calm in my storm?
Beau stands in front of me, the strain on his face melting as he smiles at me, his hand extended. He takes my hand before I can protest, leading me toward the dance floor.
I guess I’ve danced with too many regular guys. I’m expecting the stiff, awkward back-and-forth sway of a hockey player dragged out on the dance floor at their cousin’s wedding. But he moves like he knows exactly what he’s doing, one hand steady on my waist, the other holding mine with surprising confidence. As if I weren’t intimidated enough.
“Did you take ballroom dance lessons?” I murmur as we sway together, the world blurring around us.
“Yes,” he says. “And I was forced to practice with my sister.”
My chest clenches. “That’s... unfairly cute.”
His eyes lock on mine, and everything else fades. He dips his head, lips brushing mine in a whisper of a kiss. It’s chaste enough to not draw attention, but it still sends a flush through my body.
When we break apart, we’re both a little breathless.
“That was...” I trail off.
“Yeah,” he says.
But the moment ends when someone taps Beau on the shoulder and murmurs something about a Mr. Hearst wanting a word.
Beau’s jaw tightens. “Give me a sec?”
I nod, lips still tingling. The music, the venue, the gown. It’s the perfect setting for a video, so I pull out my phone. It’ll be good to show my followers another side of myself. Good to see that you can be a tough hockey captain and still get dressed up for a ball.
“Ah,” says a cool, cultured voice behind me. “So, you’re the influencer.”
I turn slowly. The man facing me is older. He’s got silver hair, and he’s wearing an immaculately tailored tux. He’d be good-looking if his expression wasn’t carved from pure disdain. If Beau’s jawline is chiseled, his dad’s looks like it could slice through a shoe like one of those knives I used to see advertised on TV at my grandma’s house.
“Mr. Whitaker,” I say, holding out my hand.
He takes it but doesn’t really shake it. Just a quick clasp and release. I’m sure that’s not the way he shakes hands with his cronies, but I guess I’m not worthy of a real shake.
“You’re Luna.”
I give a sharp nod. There’s not much else to say about that.
