The wine never makes it to my mouth. Instead, I drench my white shirt completely, gasping at the unexpected sensation. Conversation around the table stops. All heads turn toward me.
I glance over my shoulder. Oliver is standing there, frozen, arm still extended towards my plate, mouth hanging open beneath the red silk mask.
“Fuck,” he says.
CHAPTER3
Oliver
I’ve always wondered if it was possible to die of embarrassment.
Now I know.
It’s not.
But death would beabsolutelypreferable to the complete humiliation washing over me right now, now that I’ve totally screwed up theentire fucking evening.
Nik rushes around the table with a spare linen napkin and hands it to the hot-but-haughty dude I’ve been fantasizing about all night and who is—now—never going to want anything to do with me again.
Except that I’ve beenassignedto him, which means he’ll have to specificallyasknever to see me again, and then I’ll be doubly humiliated. I just know it.
Haughty Hottie starts dabbing at his shirt, lips a thin line, and I think about how carefully but quickly I ironed that very shirt just a few hours ago.
And now I’ve ruined it.
“I’m so sorry,” I croak.
Those deep, dark eyes meet mine as he tosses his head in irritation to get the lock of jet hair off his forehead. Elliot Barrington-Thwaite, Earl of Arden, is visiting from England, according to the file full of notes I was given when I arrived. There was a whole list of ways to address him, which I skimmed over, because I’d assumed the universal “Sir” would be fine.
It wasn’t, as I’d already found out.
But that was much less of an issue than giving him a Zinfandel bath.
“It’s quite alright,” Haughty Hottie says, in that polite way that tells you it’s totallynotalright. He stands, and Zee stands as well. She doesn’t hide her smile fast enough, and that makes me feel even worse.
“Niklaus, if you would—” she begins, and he nods.
“Of course. Elliot, come with me,” he says, and leads the guy out of the room.
I stand there like a total dickwad watching them go, not knowing if I should follow, or keep clearing plates. But by the time I decide I should probablynotgo running after the Dom whose shirt I just ruined, one of the other servers is already picking up my designated part of the table, right under my nose.
“I can—” I start weakly, but he shakes his head with a friendly, commiserating smile.
“Maybe go check on dessert?” he says in a low voice.
The idea of getting out of this room is the best idea I’ve ever heard. I just about run out of the dining area and into the main hall.
Wait…
Which way is the kitchen from here?
* * *
Just two weeks ago, I wasperfectlyin my element, even if I was a little melancholy after a period of changes. My best friend and roommate, Brandon, had finally made the big leap and moved out of our apartment to shack up with his Dom, Heath. I was happy for Brandon—I really was—but I couldn’t help feeling a little envious.
Okay. Maybe alotenvious. In my friendship group this year, everyone seemed to be finding their perfect matches…except for me. I’d thought a Friday night out at the newest kink club would help cheer me up, but watching all the happy couples around me had been tough.
Not to mention Jonathan Ashe going on and freakingonabout his wedding plans. A New Year’s Eve wedding, he’d decided, over on the East Coast at his fiancé’s family’s woodland estate.
