“You doing okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, fine, why?” He glances at me and offers a smile made stiffer by the way he’s clenching his jaw.
“Because you keep yanking at your tie like it’s strangling you.”
“It is strangling me.”
I reach up and adjust it for him, then stand on tiptoe to kiss the corner of his mouth. He gives a sexy little growl and pulls me against him, going in for a deeper kiss.
I’m breathless by the time I pull back. “Better now?”
“Much.” He grins, a real one this time.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s grab a glass of wine. Maybe that’ll help.”
“I don’t know if I can swallow with my neck in a noose.”
“I’m sure you’ll give it your best shot.”
I slip my hand into the crook of his elbow again as we head toward the bar on the south end of the ballroom. I survey the crowd, keeping an eye out for familiar faces.
“Your sister’s here, right?” Dax asks.
“Cassie texted to say they’re running late,” I tell him. “The board roped Simon into giving a last-minute speech, so they’re hiding out in the car scribbling notes or something.”
“Or something.” He grins and glances down at me. “Is that code for making out in the back seat?”
I laugh and clutch his arm tighter. “I see you’ve caught on quickly.”
“I think it’s cool,” he says. “How they’re so into each other.”
“I agree.” I step around a tuxedoed waiter and wonder which part of their couplehood Dax admires. The crazy-hot chemistry? The easy conversation? The fact that it’s so clear that Simon has Cassie’s back, and vice versa?
Or maybe it’s the whole package. I can’t help wondering if Dax wants that for himself someday, the way I want it for me.
I hold back on saying any of that, since a charity ball swarming with well-heeled masses is hardly the place for that sort of conversation. “They’re a great couple,” I agree benignly.
We step around a massive ice sculpture that’s an architectural model of the new community center they’re hoping to build with funds from this event.
“Pardon me,” I murmur to two ladies dripping with diamonds and swirling in a cloud of Hermes Perfume 24 Faubourg. The stuff sells for $1500 an ounce, so I can’t say I’m disappointed when one of them grabs my arm.
“Oh my goodness, Lisa Michaels,” the redhead gushes. “I was just telling Ashley here what a fabulous job you did redesigning Peter and Bridget’s penthouse over in the West Hills.”
“Yes, of course,” I say, delighted to be recognized for a job I’m pretty darn proud of. “How are Peter and Bridget?”
“Fabulous,” the blonde says again, and I wonder if it’s the only adjective in her vocabulary “They’re at their place on St. Kitts right now, having a little escape.”
“Well deserved,” I chirp, though I have no idea what two trust-fund billionaires without jobs would need to escape from. I smile anyway and gesture to the redhead’s diamond choker. “What a gorgeous piece.”
“Thanks.” She strokes her fingers over the fat rock at the center and leans in conspiratorially. “Max bought it for me to make up for the fact that he spent fifty-grand without telling me on his last boys’ getaway. You know how it is.”
“Of course,” I say, though I have no earthly idea how it is. Not from personal experience, anyway.
The brunette extends a well-manicured hand. “I’m Tiffany,” she says. “I love the work you did for Peter and Bridget’s place. The color choices in the formal dining room were exquisite.”
“Thank you so much,” I say. “Aubergine and coral really pop in the right setting.”
“I don’t suppose you have a card?” Tiffany asks. “I’m looking to redo my place in Lake Oswego.”
