Denver pulls out his phone, but I place my hand over his and push it away.
“Not that. A piece of paper or something. I need to actually write it.” I roll my hand in a circle, urging him to hurry. “Today would be super helpful.”
He slips two long fingers into the breast pocket of his dinner jacket and hands me the folded piece of paper.
“Thank you!” I snatch it off him before he can react and catch the attention of a passing waiter who’s collecting empty champagne flutes on a tray.
“Excuse me. Do you have a pen, please?”
“Sorry, Ma’am.” He gives me an apologetic smile.
I shrug, returning his smile with a bright one. “Never mind.” I drop the piece of paper into one of the half-drunk glasses. It soaks up the golden liquid, swelling inside the bottom of the glass. “Oops.”
Denver’s eyes are dark when I turn back to him.
“I forgot what it was I needed to write,” I say breezily. “Oh, that wasn’t important, was it?”
I turn as though I’m about to follow the waiter to get the paper back. A strong hand wraps around my upper arm to stop me, sending the shiver of a memory shooting up my spine.
“You okay?” Green irises flecked with gold. My eyes full of tears. Everyone wearing black. “Are you okay?”
“It wasn’t important.” His deep voice cuts through my thoughts.
“Good.” I glance at his face; his expression is unchanged, giving nothing away. I exhale as his fingers uncurl from my arm. “What do you need to do to get a drink around here?” I ask with a small, forced laugh.
“You’re thirsty?”
“A little,” I reply. My throat is growing scratchier by the second as more buried memories threaten to surface.
Denver moves fast, his hand finding my lower back through my nude silk dress. He steers us smoothly through the sea of people. They part for him, the men subtly looking at his muscular frame filling out his tux, the women less subtly checking out every inch of him, smiling up at him like freaky baby dolls with long batting eyelashes.
Zoey catches my eye from across the room where she’s standing wrapped around Ashton’s side as they talk to a group of people who are admiring one of his paintings hanging on the wall. She gives me a wide grin, and I shake my head at her.
“What would you like?” Denver asks as we reach the bar.
The bartender comes immediately when Denver tips his chin at him.
“Champagne, please.”
“Certainly,” the bartender replies before he walks to the other end of the bar and takes a pre-poured flute from a large display of meticulously stacked glasses.
He returns and offers the glass to me.
“She’ll take one from a fresh bottle,” Denver clips.
The bartender falters, then nods at Denver. “Certainly, Sir.”
As he opens a new bottle, I turn to Denver, finding him clenching his jaw. “What was?—?”
“Anyone could have slipped something into one of those glasses. No one’s been watching.”
“You’re right. No one is watching. They’re having fun instead… Except you.”
His jaw clenches tighter. “It’s my job to intercept possible threats to your well-being.”
I want to roll my eyes at how serious he looks as he says the words. But I don’t. My father and Sullivan have treated me like I’m fragile for the past two years and it’s always annoyed me. And having Denver assigned to me has only fueled that annoyance further. But the deep set of his brows, and the genuine concern in his voice is creating a new buzzing sensation inside my stomach. One that’s not completely unpleasant.
The bartender hands me my drink and I thank him.
