But I smile and follow Daphne’s pace as we slowly make our way into the ballroom for dinner.
“The hard part’s over,” she whispers softly enough for only me to hear over the string quartet.
For some reason, I don’t believe her. “Where’s the bar?”
Abercrombie isn’t asbad as I thought he would be. Sure, Connor McArthur is a typical rich brat who’s destined to be one of the good ole’ boys of Capitol Hill. But for a prick, he’s not what I assumed he’d be when I saw him with Daphne a few months ago.
“The food they served us in the Harvard cafeterias was garbage compared to this.” Connor scoops another piece of opera cake onto his fork.
Daphne was right. The dessert made this whole ordeal worth it. If only I could take some home to lick off her later.
“The pastry chefs here are incredible,” Daphne says. “I snuck into the kitchens once, and Paula taught me how to make meringue cookies.”
“I had a pastry chef too,” I tell them. “Her name was Little Debbie.”
Daphne and a couple of others at our table laugh, but Connor looks confused. Don’t tell me the poor guy’s never had a Cosmic Brownie? A Zebra Cake? Even a simple Swiss Roll?
I might send him a box for Christmas.
He turns towards his date, who’s giggling at everything any man at the table says. She’s at least a bottle of Dom Perignon deep at this point, and I don’t know how she’s going to be able to stand once dancing starts.
Every other man at this table is the child of a senator, congressman, or celebrity who’s never known a hard day’swork. All of them are about my age. And none of them are engaged or married. It’s like Mrs. Fox knew exactly who to arrange with Daphne—eligible, rich men born into the same lifestyle as her.
And Daphne’s not falling for it.
She rests her hand on my knee under the table and gives it a squeeze. My cock stirs at her touch, and damnit, why don’t they make tuxedo fabric that makes an erection less obvious? I feel like a damn teenager with her beside me in that dress. “I love a man with a good sense of humor,” she says to me, like she doesn’t care if anyone at the table overhears her.
“It’s hard to have a sense of humor,” says Miles, the son of a retired Formula One driver who wasn’t good enough to make it to the big leagues himself. Daddy’s only a multi-millionaire, so he isn’t rich enough to buy Miles a seat on a team. Talk about a tragic backstory. “Everything is so politically correct these days.”
Oh boy. Here we go.Let me guess. Miles is upset that he can’t freely say the N-word or comment on an underage girl’s body. Every muscle in my tenses, and I swear, it’s a shame they took away the knives at the table. A dessert spoon just won’t do.
“Let’s get a drink,” Daphne suggests, and I’m ready to exit this conversation.
“I could use a gin and tonic,” Miles calls out to me like I’m a fucking waiter.
“Good for you.” I stop the words ‘go get one yourself, you spoiled dickhead’ from leaving my mouth. Settling my hand on the small of Daphne’s back, I guide her away from the group of twenty-and-thirty-somethings who think life is a never-ending frat party.
“God, I hate these things,” Daphne mutters as we beeline to one of the three bars around the ballroom.
“I can see why.”
“This is my last one,” she says. “After this, I’m done. Dad gets one rally out of me, then I’m finished.”
“I’m proud of you for standing up to them,” I tell her, my voice hushed, as the Governor of Tennessee and his wife wobble past us with double scotches in hand.
Daphne’s brilliant blue eyes sparkle in the chandelier lights, and her smile brightens the entire fucking room before we reach the bar.
“What can I get for you?” The breathless bartender asks.
“Champagne,” she says.
“Two, please,” I add.
As the bartender grabs a bottle of Dom, I pull out a hundred-dollar bill from my wallet and slip it into the tip jar when he turns his back. It’s practically empty, with a couple of ones and fives tossed in like participation trophies.Congratulations, you have a job that doesn’t pay you a livable wage. Here’s something extra to make me look generous, you mere servant.
“I had a lot of jobs after Dad died,” I tell Daphne. “I worked for a caterer for a couple of years when it was wedding season or when they had Christmas parties. It’s tougher than it looks.”
Her eyes brighten from this nugget of information. “You were a caterer?”
