So why the hell is his brain stuck on her?
The one woman who doesn’t give a damn how tall he is. Who looks at him like he’s a piece of furniture she has to work around.
“You good, Stretch?” Carter asks, raising a brow as they reach the bar.
Garrett startles slightly, then clears his throat. “I asked you not to call me that.”
“Cool. Love that energy for us.” Carter flashes a grin and turns to the bartender. “Two champagnes. One extra broody.”
“I’ll have a whisky, please,” Garrett says flatly.
Carter leans against the bar, scanning the crowd. “This place is crawling with donors and debutantes. We clean up nice. I’m giving you twenty minutes before someone tries to seduce you for your signing bonus.”
Garrett snorts. “I don’t have a signing bonus.”
“Don’t ruin my narrative.”
“You’re on a base contract. You don’t have a signing bonus either.”
“Which is why I’m manifesting.” Carter accepts his champagne flute with a flourish. “Speaking it into existence. The universe rewards confidence.”
“The universe rewards people who can actually play hockey.”
“Ouch.”
Garrett shakes his head, reaching for the glass that’s slid toward him. The whisky burns his throat—a welcome distraction from the noise in his head.
He doesn’t have to look back to know she’s re-entered the ballroom.
He knows the exact shape of her silhouette in that dress. It’s burned into him.
And he hates it.
Or at least, he’s trying really hard to convince himself he does.
Garrett is trapped in what can only be described as his own personal hell.
He stands near the edge of the ballroom, nursing his whiskey like it might save him, nodding politely as a white-haired woman in a sequined cape shows him a photo on her phone of her daughter’s “fabulous bone structure.” Carter is thriving, grinning and complimenting every pearl-wearing blue-haired lady in sight.
“You’d get along so well,” Sequins insists, tapping at her screen. “My Mikayla is very open-minded. She just got back from a tantra retreat in Sedona.”
Garrett blinks. “You don’t say.”
Another woman—diamonds, mauve shawl—cuts in, waving a fluted glass. “Don’t listen to Brenda. My niece teaches aerial yoga. You should see her core strength. I have pictures—hang on.”
“I’m good, thanks,” Garrett says, backing up a step.
Carter claps him on the back. “My guy. They smell the fear.”
“They’re like elderly vultures,” Garrett mutters.
“You’re a hot commodity,” Carter says, clearly enjoying this way too much. “Big, broody, and single. They’re just trying to marry you into one of the founding families.”
Garrett feels his eyes drift across the ballroom, searching for an exit strategy.
What he finds instead is Naomi.
She’s on the move—again—her jet black gown skimming across the floor, tablet in one hand, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Her mask sparkles under the chandeliers, but it does nothing to hide the frustration pulling at her mouth. Every few seconds she glances at her tablet or whispers something to a server, and each time, her expression gets tighter.
