I accept his handshake. “This is all of your wife’s doing. She’s the real magic behind the event. I just show up and toss a few boxes out.”
He chuckles politely, and his gaze goes back to her as soon as he drops his hand. “She is the magic behind many things.”
Her cheeks pinken. She nudges Charles on the chest, which he seems to understand means that he’s been dismissed. He glances between the two of us. “Can I top off your champagne glasses, ladies?”
“Yes, please.” Marsha hands him an empty flute, and I hand him the one I’ve been carrying around tonight. I don’t care much for the taste of alcohol, but if I walk around with a glass in my hand, I blend in.
He takes the glasses, disappearing into the crowd. There are so many people here tonight. Far more than usual, making the atrium warm and humid. But despite the stifling air, the mood is cheerful. Seeing the kids with Santa makes the donors reach extra deep into their pockets, which is great since this is a nonprofit hospital.
“How are you liking married life?” I ask lightly.
She gives me a sly grin. “Let’s just say Charles’s stocking is definitely hung.”
The smile on my face freezes in place. I don’t know what to say to that.
She cackles. “I got you a gift.”
We don’t normally exchange gifts, although she always gets a nice piece of jewelry from the Jolly Family Media Company as thanks for her hard work every year.
She produces a long, red box wrapped with a silver ribbon that curls.
I fully expect this to be a nice bracelet, perhaps something with diamonds given Marsha’s tendency to be so generous. But when I open the box, I’m surprised to find a piece of paper. It’s heavy paper, black, with gold lettering on it. There’s a single word typed in a neat serif font: Crave.
“You mentioned being lonely,” she says. “Flip it over.”
I turn over the heavy cardstock to see a printed invitation, giving the holder of the pass a night of debauchery at Club Crave on New Year’s Eve.
“It’s where people go to meet up,” she says. “It’s very high class. Everyone is carefully background checked, and those in attendance of the club have…interesting tastes.”
I work to keep the frown from showing on my face as I wonder what would have prompted her to think that I have those same interesting tastes. I mean, sure I do. But that side of my life is strictly regulated to a few smutty books I read in the wee hours of the morning when I can’t sleep.
“You should go,” she says, sensing my trepidation. “Meet someone. Have fun. It’s a great place to explore. Charles and I went a few months ago.”
Another detail about her husband I could have done without. Still, I paste a smile on my face and thank her as I tuck the invitation carefully back into the red box.
For a moment, I wonder if I could go with Ford. Would he like that? Would he enjoy exploring my interesting tastes? Instantly, I dismiss the idea. He’s my boss. He doesn’t think of me like that.
Chapter 3
Joy
“And she didn’t say anything about where she was when you talked to her?” Mom asks again, pacing the quiet conference room with a small Christmas tree in the corner. Half of the lights are glowing too brightly, a sure sign they’re about to burn out.
The Christmas party is in full swing. Biker Santa arrived. That’s what everyone calls Rogue behind his back.
Two years ago, he stomped out of the Christmas party, put a curvy woman dressed as an elf on the back of his bike, and kidnapped her. Actually, they knew each other and the elf was in love with him, so I’m not so sure that it counts as kidnapping. Still, it’s always struck me as kind of romantic.
“No, she didn’t,” I answer, sipping my fizzy champagne and trying not to grimace.
The two of us are back here because Bobby’s parents wanted to chat with us. His life is so carefully structured by them that I’m surprised he doesn’t have to ask for permission every time he blows his nose.
I know that’s an ungracious thought, but sometimes, I can’t help wondering if it ever makes him crazy. He’s in his twenties. Doesn’t he want to rebel against them? What would be Bobby’s idea of rebelling–combing his hair in the wrong direction? Not saying “thank you” to the cashier after a purchase?
Mom picks invisible lint from her jacket, and my heart twists when I see the slight shake of her fingers.
“I told her,” I whisper. “I told her that he was going to propose. I don’t think she’s lost.”
Mom’s shoulders relax away from her ears for half a second. She presses her lips together as Bobby’s parents enter the room with all the regal grace of two people who have been born into generational wealth. Pretty sure his great-great-great grandparents owned a castle. A real one with a moat.
