“But we have trays to circulate before?—”
“Stay. Here.”
I leave them whispering, undoubtedly about me, but instead of heading to meet the bird lady, I find myself turning toward the ballroom, my legs eating up the distance down the service hallway. Before I step through the door, I take a beat to adjust my cuffs and smooth my jacket. I can’t afford to lose my control or my temper, which is difficult when I can still feel the sharp points of contact where CJ’s nails dug into my pecs. The phantom burn reminds me that she’s escalated to wounding me physically instead of just emotionally like usual, and I swear to god, if she fucks tonight up for me, I might actually murder her.
So much for calm. I walk through the door separating the staff area from the center of the action and am hit with the sounds of a German oompah band.
“Oh my god,” I whisper to no one in particular. “It’s even better than I hoped.”
When I learned that Howard wanted live music at his black-tie soiree, I volunteered to handle it, then went out and found the weirdest possible choice for a holiday party designed to seal the deal with the seven-figure investors my CEO’s been courting for months. The Max Müller Good-Time Band’s version of “Silent Night” is anything but silent—not that there are many people here to notice.
The Oakwood ballroom is a huge, high-ceilinged rectangle with three guest entrances on the right side and the kitchen, service entrance, and a small AV booth on the left. A massive bar runs the length of the wall behind me, and decorated Christmas trees, evergreen garlands, and flickering electric lanterns are arranged in every available space, setting an elegant holiday mood. Tables covered in pine and red-ribbon centerpieces fill the rest of the room, with a small performance space set up in the middle. Howard’s VIP table commands a prime spot adjacent to the performance space, positioned so he can preside over the festivities like a king surveying his domain.
That domain, however, is practically empty, with the circling catering staff outnumbering the guests at least three to one. I glance around in bewilderment at the sparse crowd. It’s mostly made up of people I don’t recognize, with not a coworker or local businessperson to be found.
“Rumpleshaker, sir?”
A server in a green sweater and striped pants holds a tray of drinks out toward me. He’s in the male version of what my two favorite girls—and my absolutely least favorite one—are wearing tonight, and when I hesitate, he says brightly, “It’s Rumple Minze and grapefruit juice.”
“Oh, I’m aware.“ More than aware. I came up with that abomination myself.
The server gives me a look that says your funeral when I accept a glass, but his concern isn’t necessary. I want something in my hands as I scan the room for a miniskirted escapee from the North Pole, but I won’t let a drop actually pass my lips. Then I forget all about my search when I spot a scowling Howard in the far corner of the room, gesturing angrily at his long-suffering admin.
Maxine is biting her lip and consulting a battered clipboard clutched in her arm, her iron-gray hair not moving a fraction of an inch as she shakes her head briskly and taps the paper she’s referring to. That tiny display of distress stops me in my tracks. The unflappable Maxine is flapping, and finding out why just became more important than sniffing out what CJ’s up to.
The instant Howard whirls to snatch a Rumpleshaker off the tray of a passing waiter, Maxine slips away and I sidle over to her.
The stressed look on her face vanishes when she spots me, her plump cheeks lifting into a grin. “Well, don’t you look handsome.” She pats my chest right where CJ sank her claws into me.
“Thank you. And you’re elegant as always.” I raise my glass in a toast to her black sequined pantsuit.
“I wanted to dress for the occasion.” Her smile may look innocent, but I recognize that gleam in her eyes. Although Maxine’s one of the nicest people I know, she’s been as involved as I have in making sure this is a night Howard will remember for years to come.
That said, I’m not sure what’s going on with the crowd.
“Where is everybody?”
Maxine’s smile widens as she cuts a glance over her shoulder at her former boss. “Just an awful mix-up.“ She holds the clipboard out to me, and I see two invitations to Howard’s “lock down the investors for my IPO” holiday bash. Both sheets of heavy cream paper are covered in identical elegant script but for one difference: The invite on the left says the party starts at seven p.m., while the other says eight.
“How did this happen?” I ask, not nothing to hide the delight in my voice.
“It’s the strangest thing.” Maxine tries to look sorrowful. “I hired such a talented artist for the invitations, but something went wrong. Mr. Randall put me in charge of so many last-minute details, and unfortunately, things sometimes slip through the cracks.” She shrugs and looks around the empty space.
“What a shame,” I say with a slow smile. “Well, I’m sure the room will fill up eventually.”
“That’s what I was trying to explain to Mr. Randall. He’s furious with the artist, but I told him the mistake is mine.”
“Was it?” I ask.
“As far as he knows.” Maxine looks smug. Hell, she looks triumphant. I’ve only seen that smug little smile once before, and that’s when a client trounced Howard on the golf course so badly that he came back to the office, kicked a trash can, and broke two toes. “He’s requested that I activate the company phone tree and get people here ASAP.”
Requested? More like furiously demanded, based on the interaction I just saw.
“But yesterday was your last official day with Sounder.”
“Indeed. Mr. Randall seems to have forgotten that I’m here as a guest and that as of yesterday at five p.m., I officially turned over my credentials and my company phone.”
Meaning she can’t get fired, and her retirement is safe. I don’t know how she survived the past thirty-three years as Howard’s assistant, although she once told me that her kick-ass pension was the only reason she hadn’t slipped strychnine into his coffee yet.
