The crisp, autumn air sends goosebumps racing down my arms, but given how little I’ve slept in the past twenty-four hours, I’ll suffer a little chill to stay awake.
“Sloane! Over here!” Donna Mills, one of the three women responsible for putting my photo on the Christmas Book cover stubs out her cigarette in a nearby ashtray and waves us over to one of the outdoor tables. Radiant heat warms us from above, and string lights woven around the greenery provide a romantic glow to the entire space.
“Donna, you remember Marina?” I step aside so the two women can embrace and set my half-full glass of sparkling water down on the far edge of the table. Within seconds, a uniformed server whisks it away. He’s back inside before I can call out to him. It’s a good thing I was only carrying it for show. Parties like this where everyone wants a piece of me? If I spend any time without a drink in my hand, someone will take it upon themselves to “fix” the situation. Or try to.
“I need to get some rest before tomorrow’s press conference,” I say, a hint of contrition to my voice. “Long flight and all. But I couldn’t let tonight go by without thanking you—and the rest of the committee—for selecting me as your cover model this year.”
We embrace, air kisses all around, and Donna’s laugh, despite being raspy from her cigarette, warms me with how very genuine it is. “My dear, Sloane, I have wanted you on our cover every year for the last five. But you know how things are. The politics of this industry. Sometimes…what we want and what we must do are very different things.”
Her admission shocks me, though I catch the strong scent of scotch or bourbon on her breath. “That’s…so nice of you to say.”
“It’s the truth. You’re more than just your looks, Sloane.” Donna reaches out and lightly skims her fingers along my jaw. “You have depth. Wisdom.”
Whether she isn’t fully aware of what she’s saying or my poker face is failing me this late at night, she quickly claps her hand over her mouth, her cheeks darkening in the dim light.
“Oh, my God. I didnotmean to imply that you look old. Not in the least. You could pass for twenty-five, twenty-seven easily! No. I meant that you’rereal. If we shot you with no makeup, wearing a pair of baggy yoga pants and a bulky sweatshirt, you’d be every bit as beautiful. It’s how you carry yourself. Your presence.That’swhat we want on our cover. That’s whatI’vealways wanted on our cover.”
“Excuse me, Ms. Sanders?” A server appears just behind me, balancing a tray on his arm. “A gentleman sent this over for you.”
I hold up my hand and offer the server a smile. “I’m sorry, I don’t drink before runway shows. Please thank the gentleman for me, though.”
“He was quite insistent.” Angling the tray so it’s closer to me, he adds, “The bartender had to call up to the Lac Bar for the ingredients. I believe this is called a Kvasya?”
My knees buckle, my heart skipping a beat—or two—and I shove at the tray as the cloying scents of cinnamon and yeast hit my nose. The drink tumbles to the ground, splashing my bare toes.
“Sloane!” Marina wraps her arm around my waist. “What is it?”
“Who…who sent that?” I ask, unable to force the words out much above a whisper.
The server peers through the windows into the ballroom. “He was standing just inside a few moments ago. But I do not see him now. Please, Ms. Sanders, wait right here and I’ll return with a towel and some club soda.”
“N-no. That’s all right.” Swallowing hard, I try for a smile, but I’m not sure I succeed since my lips have a mind of their own right now and my fingers are trembling and tapping against one another like I’m playing the piano. “My apologies. I overreacted. I’m tired and I should get up to my room.”
Turning to Donna, who looks a bit shell-shocked, I lean in for another two air kisses. “We’ll talk more tomorrow, yes?” I ask.
“Of course, dear. Get some rest.”
I don’t know how I’ll be able to now, but I nod and pull Marina with me back into the ballroom. A flash of black tuxedo in the corner of my eye almost stops me. Was that the man from the bar? The one whose handkerchief I’m now clutching in case my impending tears spill over? But when I turn my head, he’s gone.
Chapter Ten
Griff
Sloane and Marina flee the ballroom like someone lit their shoes on fire, and I start after them until Marina glances behind her and mouths,“Patio.”
Though I had them in my sights most of the time they were out there, I missed whatever happened to put the fear of God into Sloane. The idea of leaving the two of them alone doesn’t sit well, but as indecision freezes me in place, my watch buzzes.
Marina: Going back to our room. Find out who sent the drink.
Well, at least Sloane’s friend can keep her cool—when she’s not about to rip me a new asshole.
A server is crouched next to one of the tables piling pieces of broken glass onto his tray, and a group of women gather under one of the radiant heaters thirty feet away, smoking and paying no attention to the staff.
“Hey.” I crouch down next to the guy, catching the heavy scent of cinnamon along with something that is vaguely reminiscent of beer. “What happened?”
Without raising his head, the guy’s lips start to move, and I tap the temple of my glasses.
“…of the models was upset that a gentleman inside bought her a drink.”
