Digging in her clutch, she pulls out one of my handkerchiefs and dabs at her shimmering eyes. “Griff…I…there’s so much I want to say. I just don’t have the words.”
“Shh. We have time. I’m not going anywhere. Except down to the ballroom with the most beautiful woman in the world.”
With one last, lingering look in the mirror, Sloane nods. “Okay. Let’s go.” She only manages a half smile, but it’s genuine, and I offer her my left arm. I don’t have any sensation above the wrist, but the weight on my shoulder as she wraps her fingers around my elbow reassures me enough to unlock the door.
When we’re back in the States, I need to tell Austin just how right he was. About everything.
* * *
The ballroom is litwith thousands of tiny white lights, tall silver “trees” decorated with bright blue ornaments line the room, and every post is wrapped in silver and white tulle. Along the far wall, six tables hold hundreds of copies of the Christmas Book, but the stacks are hidden under blue velvet drapes until theBeauty and StyleCEO gives his big speech in a couple of hours.
After the security guards check my name against the list on their tablets, we’re allowed in.
“It’s so beautiful,” she says, leaning closer to me and resting her head on my shoulder for a brief moment.
“Not compared to you.” I cover her hand with mine, fully intending to kiss her when Donna Mills, the head of theBeauty and StyleChristmas Book selection committee rushes over to us.
“Sloane, my dear. You are a vision. Thatdress!” Donna leans in to air kiss both of Sloane’s cheeks.
“You’re too kind,” Sloane says with a small smile. “This is my boyfriend, Harry Griffin. He’s standing in as my agent for the weekend as well.”
“Mr. Griffin. It’s a pleasure.” Leaning in, presumably to whisper, she adds, “I heard about the little mob scene after the runway show. I was backstage at the time, but you were mentioned several times during the cocktail party—carrying Sloane to safety like some gallant white knight.”
“All part of the job, Ms. Mills.” Clearly, the woman doesn’t know I can’t hear her, or if she does, she hasn’t let on. “I presume we won’t have the same problem tonight.”
“Oh, no. Not at all. The only photographers allowed in are withBeauty and Style.You’ll be quite safe from any mobs—beyond Sloane’s fans, of course, and she has many among our staff.”
“Working with you has been my honor,” Sloane says, and from the look on her face, she means it. Ever since the middle of the runway show yesterday, she’s been comfortable and relaxed when not worried about Volkov, and I intend to do whatever I can to ensure she stays that way. To let her enjoy the evening so if she does decide to retire, she can do so with no regrets.
She deserves it. And so much more.
* * *
Sloane
The hours pass quickly, a flurry of congratulations from investors and executives alike, idle chitchat with some of the models—including Jill, who stares at Griff like she wants to eat him for dessert—and dancing.
Marina, with Jacob her constant shadow, flits by at regular intervals, the last time with a glass of champagne in her hand. “Only one,” she says, winking at me. “Otherwise I’ll turn into a pumpkin with a massive headache long before midnight.”
“I’m sure Jacob would dance with you.” I adjust my hand on Griff’s shoulder, the straps holding his prosthetic in place noticeable only because I know about them. “You can’t leave without one dance under these gorgeous lights.”
My best friend rolls her eyes. “I asked. He said he ‘doesn’t dance.’”
Guiding us to the edge of the dance floor, Griff stares daggers at Jacob until the former-SAS officer joins us. “Dance with the woman, for fuck’s sake. It’s a slow song. You’re not going to have to pull out any ‘moves.’”
“Fine. But I will not be held responsible for any broken toes,” he mutters and offers Marina his hand.
With a huge smile, she sets her champagne flute down on a tulle-wrapped table and practically floats to the middle of the ballroom.
“Thank you.” I press a quick kiss to Griff’s lips, and his hand tightens on my waist. “She loves to dance, and I don’t know why no one else in the place is asking her.”
His laugh warms me from head to toe. “Because everyone’s afraid of Jacob and how he’s watching her.” Shaking his head, he adds, “It’s purely professional, but men like him—like us—we train to be intimidating.”
“Well, I like you intimidating.”
We sashay back to the dance floor, where Griff takes my hand, spins me out and back, then dips me. He’s perfect. Serious and protective to his very core, but capable of these wonderful, light, surprising moments where he can make me laugh and forget about all of my problems.
“Liked that, did you?” he asks, grinning as he pulls me close to trail kisses along the curve of my neck.
