Her eyes flit to the chair in question—wedged between Richard and a man with a salt-and-pepper buzz cut she recognizes as the Whalers’ President of Operations. “I actually need to double-check the valet situation, and?—”
“Naomi,” Richard says, voice devoid of inflection. “Sit. Have a drink.”
Her body, traitorous as ever tonight, obeys. She lowers herself onto the edge of the chair like it might bite her.
Richard pours her a glass of wine without asking—naturally—then turns to her with a look that somehow feels both like a performance review and a scolding from a disappointed vice principal.
“Why do you look like I just asked you to commit a felony?”
Naomi hesitates. Then shrugs, trying for breezy and landing somewhere closer to guilty. “I thought you were glaring at me earlier. Figured you thought I was slacking off.”
Richard lifts an eyebrow. “I was watching you run yourself ragged.”
Naomi blinks.
“That’s not a compliment,” he adds, swatting away any delusions she might have. “It was inefficient. You didn’t delegate, youtried to do everything yourself, and your panic was visible from space.”
Naomi stares at him. The absolute nerve of this man! The smugness. The gall. And also—the sheer, infuriating accuracy.
He leans back, swirling his wine again. “The event was a success. You and Mila pulled it off. Too many sparkles for my taste, but fine.”
“Next time?” he continues. “Delegate. Learn to use the team you hired. And for god’s sake—” he glances at her feet, then back at her face “—choose different shoes. I know as a male lead I’m not supposed to comment on my subordinate’s attire, but I’m in pain just watching you.”
Naomi looks down at her strappy black heels. The red welts. The faint outline of impending blisters.
Goddammit, he’s right again.
Naomi looks up at him, flushing. She wants to throw her wine at him. Also maybe cry. Also maybe hug him? Which is the clearest sign yet she’s fully, completely lost it.
She folds her hands in her lap. Composes her expression. “I’ll add ‘less ragged’ to my Q1 goals.”
Richard smirks. Glen coughs into his wineglass, failing spectacularly at hiding his laugh.
Someone brings over a tray of champagne flutes. Naomi grabs one with a hand that’s still trembling from adrenaline and...whatever that coat check incident was. She sips, letting the fizz distract her for a second.
The ballroom’s thinning out. A few players hover near the dessert table. Somewhere, Carter’s laugh rings out.
Tall is nowhere to be seen.
Naomi sinks into the chair and lets her spine touch the back for the first time tonight. She breathes. And for once, no one asks her to fix anything.
She closes her eyes for a beat. The memory of Tall still burns behind her lids—the heat of his mouth, the weight of his hands, the look on his face when she ruined it.
This wasn’t a thing, right?
She opens her eyes again and scans the room.
Still no Tall.
And all she wants—stupidly, recklessly—is to find him.
CHAPTER 18
GARRETT
He’s done.
He shook the sponsors’ hands. He posed for photos with the hospital’s board of directors and their aggressively matchmaking wives. He smiled—fine, he bared his teeth—and nodded through three different “So how’s the season going?” small talk death spirals.
