Her eyes narrow. “Then why are you offering them to me?”
“Because I’m lying. They’re delicious. I made the server give me the entire tray.”
She stares at him, suspicious. “Why?”
“To bother you.”
Her comeback stalls on her tongue, surprise flickering across her face before she swallows it down.
He’s watching her with that maddening, unreadable expression. “You’re not funny,” she mutters, reaching for one of the canapés anyway.
“I’m hilarious,” he says flatly.
She bites into it. It’s actually incredible—crispy phyllo filled with spiced lentils and caramelized onions, still a little warm.
Her shoulders sag. She chews, swallows, exhales. Then, without fully thinking about it, she reaches up and slides the mask from her face. The thing’s been digging into her temple all night.
Tall looks at her. “This place won’t burst into flames if you take five minutes to breathe, you know,” he says quietly. “Eat something. Sit down.”
She scoffs lightly, gesturing vaguely at the ballroom. “Some of us actually have to work.”
His mouth tugs at the corner. “That a dig?”
“It’s a fact.”
He raises an amused brow. “I still think you should sit, Short Stack. You’re vibrating like an angry chihuahua.”
Naomi glares at him. He offers her another phyllo. She accepts it grudgingly.
While she’s munching, Tall casually flags a server, gets champagne sent to Table Seven, then beckons another to check on dessert.
“There,” he says. “Delegating. Revolutionary concept.”
Naomi pops another bite into her mouth, letting herself lean against a nearby column for a second. Just one second. Her feet hurt. Her brain hurts.
And yet…her chest loosens just enough to breathe.
And Tall’s still standing there. Not looking at her like she’s failing. Not judging. Just quietly, stupidly helpful in his own weird way.
She tries not to smile. Fails.
She looks around, taking stock of the event, of the groups of people smiling and mingling, of the hockey players scrubbed up into suits making small talk with local business owners, of the laughter filtering around the ballroom.Not bad, she tells herself. She and Mila threw a pretty decent ball.
She looks around the ballroom, pride flickering in her chest?—
—and her gaze collides with Richard’s across the room.
He’s watching her. Eyebrows raised. That condescending little smirk like he’s caught her slacking off, like he’s already drafting a post-event feedback email accusing her of being unprofessional.
Her stomach drops. Her spine goes rigid.
Oh God. No. Not him. Not now.
“Fuck.” The word barely makes it out before she’s moving—shoving back from the column, leaving her mask and the pile of snacks behind. She doesn’t know where she’s going, just away. Away from Richard’s disdain and the tightening in her chest.
Tall follows.
“Want me to take care of him?” he asks dryly.
