But, just like the rest of my life, I’ll get through it.
I always do.
Then I’m leaving the gas station bathroom, getting in my car and driving back up to the vineyard.
This time I pull behind the building, parking among the beat-up Toyotas and the older-model Fords instead of the Range Rovers and Mercedes and Rivians. I cut the engine, allow myself just a moment to focus, to steady my nerves, then I pop the door, get out, and follow the stream of similarly clad workers into the building.
A brunette with striking blue eyes is standing in the kitchen, smiling at us as we file in to fill the small room.
I stand awkwardly in the corner, waiting for orders, but to my surprise the woman comes close to us, her smile only growing.
“Thank you in advance for your work tonight. My charity couldn’t exist without you and while I know this is likely just another job for you, the animals you’re helping really appreciate it. As do I.”
Something happens in my heart, my belly—the sliver of hope growing, the kernel of hate getting just a little smaller.
There’s something so genuinely sweet and earnest about this woman, and I can’t help but like her. “Please make sure you eat at some point tonight,” she says. “We have food available now and the kitchen will make sure you’ll have options as well to take home after the event. And if you like wine”—a nod to a table positioned on the far wall—“there are two bottles there for each of you.” Her mouth kicks up. “And please don’t forget to grab one of the goodie bags on your way out. I promise if you use the bath salts, your feet and body will thank you tomorrow.”
She waves and smiles again then slips out of the room, leaving a pair of woman with clipboards to take over.
“Is she for real?” I find myself whispering as we line up.
A slender blonde turns to me. “First time?”
I nod, even as I’m kicking myself for drawing attention. I’m going for stealth, for a quick in-and-out.
Small talk isn’t part of that.
“Yeah,” I say because I have to saysomething.
“Chrissy is great,” the blonde tells me. “She wants to raise money for her charity, but she also actually cares about us. We’re not just interchangeable robots to her.” She leans close, rubs her fingers together. “And if you stick around to the very end, she’ll make her gratitude known in cold hard cash.”
Chrissy who runs a charity.
The slender thread of hope inside me dies a quick death.
Because what are the chances that she’s Christina Dawson née Dubois whoownsthe charity putting on this fundraiser?
The Christina I’m supposed to frame for a crime from tonight.
SEVEN
BROOKS
“I’m goingto head home and change,” I tell Jace. “We drinking at my place or yours?”
“Yours,” Jace says with a smirk. “I’m not risking the wrath of Marie.”
“We’re not college kids on a bender.”
“Those bruises on your face say otherwise.” Before I can retort, someone calls out his name and he turns, lifts a hand in greeting. Then he glances over at me with a sigh. “I need to make the rounds here for a little while longer, but I’ll meet you at your apartment. I’ll bring the pizza, you pick up the bourbon.”
Bender indeed.
It doesn’t get any closer to college blackout antics than pizza and alcohol.
Probably for the best we’re doing this at my place.
Especially since although the food served tonight was delicious, there wasn’t a lot of it to go around. Jean-Michel’s award-winning Oak Ridge Petite Sirah was flowing freely, along with champagne from his vineyard in France and Pinot Grigio from Italy.
