“We could go out to dinner instead,” he offered as they exited his office building. He kept trying to take her to restaurants, which was baffling to Darcy, since she had already slept with him. “And I should have reminded you to bring something to change into. We could go to the St. Jude’s gala tomorrow, see most of the same people.”
He wore a suit but no tie. Darcy was wearing a button-down white shirt tucked into black slacks. They weren’t dressed very differently, she didn’t think. She’d helped Kristin cater plenty of fancy parties in this outfit, last spring.
“This is the nicest outfit I own,” she said. She owned dresses, but they were all of the kind that she put on mostly for the taking off, and she didn’t think that was the vibe of a party to benefit the Feldman Visual Arts Academy. “Unless you count my dress blues. You wanna see me in a dixie cup hat?”
He didn’t, it seemed. His expression was morose as theywalked further through Midtown. The sun was still bright on the pavement and bags of uncollected garbage.
“You’re not going to enjoy this,” Teagan warned her.
“It can’t be much worse than escorting oil tankers through the Straits of Hormuz,” she said. “Petrochemicals. Iranian go-fasts. Sea snakes, if you fall in.”
“Do you think?” Teagan asked, eyes rounding with concern.
Darcy laughed and smacked him in the chest. “Of course not. It’s a seated dinner. At worst, it’ll be like that time a squirrel died under Rachel’s porch, and I had to dig it out with a broom.”
“In this metaphor, am I the dead squirrel?” He tilted his chin away in faux outrage as Darcy giggled at him.
Darcy didn’t think she’d mind the evening as much as he seemed to think. For all Teagan was twitchy and subdued, he looked very handsome in his charcoal suit, and Darcy wasn’t above feeling up on herself for arriving at this fancy rich-person function on his arm.
“Don’t ask me to identify metaphors. I’m a wildlife science major,” she said grandly.
That was a thing she felt comfortable saying because she’d spent four solid hours catching up on homework this morning while Teagan listened to conference calls on his headset and ripped Post-it notes into little piles on his desk. Then this afternoon she’d marked half a dozen cafes without liquor licenses within a few blocks of Teagan’s office while she listened to Carrie Fisher’s memoir. It felt like years since she’d had the time to listen to anything for pleasure. Fully employed, progressing in her class, and engaged in leisure activities? Yes! That was her!
She beamed at her charge, willing his miserable expressionto lighten. She’d show him. They’d make it through this evening free and clear if she had to personally tackle a cater-waiter to keep the cocktails out of his hands.
“Would you usually drink at one of these things?” Darcy asked, trying to suss out what his issue was. A fundraiser really didn’t sound too terrible of an ordeal, but Teagan’s face was taut with stress.
Darcy had yet to get a good feel for where the crisis points were likely to be in Teagan’s life, since it didn’t seem like he’d made a habit of drinking at either his mother’s house or the office. He never talked about it.
“I would probably have a drink or two, yes,” he said. “There’s a cocktail hour before the banquet, and then they serve wine at dinner.”
She nodded. “Okay, so what’s your plan, then?”
“I’m going to imagine that I’m back in Yellowstone, and everyone else is a gray wolf, but they’re actually two hundred meters away from me, and the park ranger is standing by with a gun.”
Darcy rolled her eyes. “I mean about the drinking.”
“Oh. I guess... I’ll order a club soda,” he said, eyes flicking to her for approval.
“That’s good,” she said approvingly. Teagan didn’t look reassured though. She tried again. “Gray wolves use social grooming to show pack allegiance. If you’re at a loss for what to do without a drink in your hand, try nibbling gently on the fur around one of the other guests’ scent glands.”
He snorted faintly. “That’s a good way to get invited to less of these things, at least.”
They reached the lobby of the Westin and followed the signs promoting the event to the ballroom, where dozens of people were milling in front of a bar. There was a stage againstone wall, round tables set for dinner in the middle, and long rectangular tables set against all the other walls bearing wrapped gift baskets, stuffed envelopes, paintings and bits of sculpture, and various crates and bottles of liquor.
Off on the other side of the room, there were a dozen or so middle school-aged kids stuffed into matching polo shirts being minded by nearly as many teachers, all milling around in front of some felt partitions on which their colorful watercolor paintings had been hung.
Teagan halted at the entrance of the room, his expression softening when he saw the huddle of bored preteens. “I forgot this is one of the ones where the kids come and talk about their art. We help fund this school’s summer camp.”
“All the stuff you do is for children’s art charities, right?” Darcy asked.
“That’s what’s in the foundation’s charter, yes,” Teagan said, absently wandering toward the bar, smiling at last. “I went to a summer program at this school when I was a kid.”
“Do you paint?” Darcy asked, suddenly curious about what Teagan actually ever did for fun.
“Not anymore. I wasn’t any good at painting. But I could make a perfectly serviceable ashtray,” he said, the corner of his mouth pulling out that lopsided dimple.
“Teagan!” came a woman’s voice from across the room, and Teagan froze like a rabbit who’d just heard a hawk’s cry.
