After some impressive begging, I finally relented and came in to help, mourning my planned Netflix and popcorn night.
My regret grows by the second.
I turn my attention to my hair. There wasn’t time to do anything but throw my auburn waves into a high ponytail. I fluff out the curtain bangs that frame my face and shrug. It’ll have to do. No one will be looking at me anyway. One thing I’ve learned when you’re a worker around the rich and influential, you’re basically furniture.
Crossing my arms under my exposed cleavage, I lean against the sink and finger the tiny gold cross around my neck. I’m not religious but it was my mother’s. It keeps her close to my heart. It’s the only jewelry I wear besides the tiny emerald nose piercing I got on my twenty-first birthday after way too many margaritas with Sloane.
My best friend blots the excess lipstick onto a paper towel. We’re complete opposites in every way, which is probably why we get along so well. She’s all dark hair, lithe muscle, sharp cheekbones and wit. She doesn’t believe in second chances or mercy. She built her business with her blood, sweat and tears after her wealthy family cut her off.
I take a softer approach to life. Try to understand where people are coming from. Mom told me everyone is fighting a battle you can’t see, and that’s the truest truth I’ve learned given my career.
“What’s this event for anyway?” I’ve helped her with weddings, which are fun. There’s always some entertaining family drama. Especially when an open bar is involved.
“Some boring fundraiser. The who’s who of Tampa political royalty.” She snaps her bag closed and turns abruptly to pull me into a hug. “I really appreciate you, ya know.”
I smile. Once she decides you’re in her inner circle, she’s such a hugger. “I know.”
Pulling back, she checks her phone. “All right, let's get the crew together in the kitchen. Almost time to start serving thehors d'oeuvresand champagne.”
Six servers and I follow Sloane onto the main floor, pushing carts loaded with food—including her popular goat cheese and salami-stuffed dates—along with bottles of champagne.
She leads us to the left side of the room where we have a clear view of the whole area. “We’ll set up and serve from here.”
I take in the space. Vaulted ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows offer a stunning view of the water and sky, where an amazing fluorescent orange sunset is unfolding. Round tables draped in white linens are arranged in front of a raised stage. Bouquets of red roses and flickering candles adorn the tables. A parquet dance floor sits in the middle of the room under a giant chandelier and a long bar runs along the back wall. Piano music is being piped into the room, and the air conditioning is on full blast, so goosebumps break out on my arms.
People are starting to trickle in. The men are wearing tuxes or designer suits. The women are in sparkling dresses that hug their bodies like a second skin, jewels dripping from their necks andarms shimmering as they walk beneath the chandelier, their hair in complicated updos.
I tug at my skirt self-consciously.
Sloane notices. “Lennon, since you don’t have experience carrying trays, why don’t you stay here at the station and pour the drinks, get the trays ready for the servers to pick up.”
Nodding my relief, I grab a bottle of Moët & Chandon to pop open. This I can do.
I get into an easy rhythm filling glasses and arranging the food trays as the venue fills up. Laughter and conversation begin to mix with the piano music.
I’m not sure how much time passes when Sloane is next to me, telling one of the servers that the mayor’s wife has requested her dinner be vegan when she suddenly stops mid-sentence.
I glance up at her. Surprise is widening her hazel brown eyes, and I follow her stare.
I freeze. My breath catches in my throat.
It can’t be.
A dozen men have filed through the doors, some with polished, sleek women on their arms, some alone. They are all wearing perfectly tailored black suits, their powerful, dark energy unmistakable. After spending every summer in the presence ofmade men, I’d recognize them even in their underwear.
Most of them continue strolling, their every move followed by curious gazes as they confidently stride into the crowd, shaking hands and plucking champagne flutes from the servers’ trays.
But one man stands at the edge of the dance floor, hands shoved in his tailored suit pockets, jaw clenched, and his brutal stare locked on me.
“Ah, Lennon?” Sloane whispers harshly next to me. “Why is that smoking hot guy staring daggers at you?”
I try to swallow but my throat is too dry. “Sandro.”
His name, a whisper on my lips, rises straight from the graveyard of things I’ve buried deep. I haven’t spoken it in ten years.
Did I even say it out loud?
The only thing I can hear now is the blood rushing in my ears as my heart beats like a frantic, caged bird in my chest.
