"I'm appropriately lubricated for social interaction with my ex-boyfriend and his judgy girlfriend."
"You require water. And protein."
"I require more champagne and a time machine."
Kruk steers me away from Derek and Madison, his hand never leaving my waist. People part around us like we're radioactive. Or like he's radiating such intense "do not approach" energy that their survival instincts are overriding their curiosity.
We make it to a high-top table near the reception area. Kruk deposits me onto a stool with surprising gentleness, then signals a waiter with a look that has the poor man scrambling over immediately.
"Water," Kruk orders, his voice dropping into that particular register that makes people instinctively obey. "And food. Substantial food. Bread. Cheese. Meat."
The waiter, a reed-thin man in his early twenties who looks like he's reconsidering all his life choices, glances nervously between us. "Sir, we have canapés available on the circulatingtrays, little salmon tartare on endive, some lovely goat cheese crostini?—"
Kruk leans forward slightly. Just slightly. But it's enough that the waiter takes an involuntary step back, nearly knocking into his own serving tray.
"Meat," Kruk repeats, enunciating each letter like he's explaining a complex tactical maneuver to a particularly slow recruit.
The waiter's eyes go wide. He nods frantically, already backing away. "Yes. Meat. Right away. I'll find something. Immediately."
He practically sprints toward the kitchen, weaving through the crowd with the desperate speed usually reserved for escaping natural disasters.
I giggle. Can't help it. The absurdity of the situation is hitting me with delayed force: I hired an orc bouncer to be my fake boyfriend at my sister's pastel vineyard wedding, and now he's ordering waiters around like we're in a military mess hall.
"You're ridiculous," I tell him, words slurring slightly.
"You are compromised." He positions himself between me and the rest of the party, blocking me from view. Protective. Possessive. "Drink when the water arrives."
"You can't just command me."
"I can. You will comply."
"That's not how relationships work."
Something shifts in his expression. His gaze drops to my mouth, then back up. "This is not a relationship. This is a contract. You hired me for protection services."
Right. Contract. Fake. Not real.
The champagne in my stomach turns sour.
"Of course," I say brightly, reaching for another passing flute. "Just a job."
Kruk intercepts my hand, fingers wrapping around my wrist. Not hard. But immovable.
"No more alcohol until you eat."
"You're not my dad."
"Correct. I am your hired protection. Which means ensuring you do not injure yourself or compromise the mission."
"The mission is to make my ex-boyfriend jealous and miserable, and I think we're doing great."
"The mission is to protect you." His thumb finds my pulse point, pressing lightly. "From him. From yourself. From any threat."
The water arrives. So does a plate piled with cheese, crackers, and what looks like an entire charcuterie board's worth of meat.
Kruk releases my wrist. "Eat."
"Bossy."
