Well, as much as someone like him could blend in, anyway. Even with a mask, he’d still be accosted by strangers asking, “how’s the weather up there?” like they’d invented comedy.
But the longer he stares at it, the more he hates the idea.
He wears enough masks already.
Garrett sets it down and walks out of the room.
CHAPTER 13
NAOMI
The hotel ballroom looks like it was dipped in liquid money.
Soft blue uplighting shimmers against the draped walls. Crystal chandeliers glitter overhead, throwing reflections off every glass and sequin in sight. Somewhere on stage, a string quartet is playing. And the crowd? Gowns. Tuxedos. Diamond-encrusted masquerade masks. Everyone floats around like they’ve never spilled coffee on a keyboard or cried in a bathroom stall at work.
Naomi exhales through her nose and pastes on a smile to welcome the adorable older couple arriving. He’s in a classic tux that doesn’t quite fit at the shoulders, with a Whalers pin stuck proudly to the lapel. She’s in a glittery teal gown and has her hair pinned up with rhinestone clips that sparkle under the lights, clutching his arm like they’ve been walking into rooms together their whole lives. It’s cute. Disgustingly, heart-squishingly cute.
The gala is the Whalers’ biggest fundraiser of the year, a black-tie masquerade hosted to support the Connecticut Children’s Hospital. Donors had paid jaw-dropping amounts for the privilege of attending—and even more for the chance to share a table with aWhalers player. Naomi and Mila had agonized over the seating chart for days, carefully matching the highest-paying attendees with the team’s most charismatic players. It wasn’t just about star power; it was about strategy—matching a quiet, retired hedge fund manager and his wife with someone like Carter, who could charm drywall, and making sure no one easily spooked ended up next to Pavel.
The party is in full swing—and she’s one crisis away from crawling under a linen-draped table and never coming out.
She’s lost count of how many things went sideways in the last three hours. Wrong centerpieces. AV feedback loud enough to trigger a cardiac event. Silent auction labels were left at the office in Toronto, so she had to beg the hotel staff to use the printer.
The seating chart is burned into her brain with such force she could recite it in her sleep.
Which is why, when Mila appears beside her looking apologetic, Naomi’s pulse immediately spikes.
“One donor cancelled,” Mila says. “Leaving a massive hole at Table Nine. Can you reshuffle?”
Naomi blinks. “Are you serious?”
“I wouldn’t say it if I weren’t serious,” Mila replies, already pulling up the seating plan on her tablet. “Move Pavel to Nine, pull someone from Fourteen, rebalance from there. You can do it.”
Naomi groans, already running mental geometry.
She doesn’t panic. But right now, she’s one more request away from developing an eye twitch.
“I’ll go print new table cards,” she says tightly, turning on her heel.
She strides through the ballroom, and down the corridor toward the front desk. Her head pounds as she mentally rewrites the seating chart in real-time and calculates how many table cards she needs to re-print.
This event has to run smoothly. Not kind of smooth. Not almost smooth. Immaculate.
Naomi’s poured weeks into this gala—late nights, endlesschecklists, solving problems before anyone else even noticed them. She’s done it all quietly, without complaint, because this is her shot. She’s proven to Mila that she’s not just support staff or the person who writes cute copy, but someone who can lead, organize, and deliver.
And now Richard is here. Somewhere in the crowd, drink in hand, silently judging every detail.
Getting sent to client sites means more than travel or status. It means trust. It means she’s seen as someone who can represent the company, keep her cool, and manage relationships face-to-face. It’s a sign that she’s not only reliable, but essential.
If she wants more opportunities like this, tonight has to be flawless.
No pressure.
Her heels click and her long black gown swishes between her legs as she approaches the front desk and flashes her most winning smile at the front desk guy—Eli, according to his name tag—and explains her dilemma.
“You’re saving lives tonight,” she tells him sweetly, palms pressed together like a prayer. “Very rich, very judgmental lives.”
Eli chuckles and hits another button. “You can sneak me a canapé as payment.”
