"Trying? Or failing?"
"Both, probably. But that’s a good thing. I should be obsessed with new girlfriend, right?” His hand squeezed my knee, then returned to the wheel. "We've got this."
We. As if we were actually a team. As if this arrangement had become a partnership when I wasn't paying attention.
I wasn't sure whether to find that comforting or terrifying.
The gala was being held at the Ashford Estate, a sprawling property on the outskirts of the city that looked as though it had been plucked from an English countryside and dropped into American suburbia. Manicured gardens. A circular driveway. Valets in matching uniforms.
I was so out of my league it wasn't even funny.
Callum came around to open my door, offered his hand. I took it, let him help me out of the car, and tried not to wobble on my heels.
"Breathe," he murmured near my ear.
"I am breathing."
"You're hyperventilating."
"Same thing."
His hand found the small of my back—warm, possessive, exactly where he'd said it would be during our practice session. Except the reality of his touch was nothing compared to the rehearsal. This felt deliciously more possessive, more sensual.
I kind of loved it.
We walked up the stone steps together, through double doors held open by staff in black tie, into a foyer that sparkled with wealth and privilege. Crystal chandeliers. Marble floors. Floral arrangements taller than me.
And people. So many people. Women in gowns that made my emerald dress seem bargain-rack cheap. Men in tuxedos discussing stock portfolios and real estate holdings. Everyone holding champagne flutes and laughing at jokes that probably weren't funny.
"How much do you think these flowers cost?" I murmured.
"More than your monthly rent."
"I was afraid you'd say that."
"Don't think about it." His hand pressed more firmly against my back, guiding me deeper into the crowd. "Think about how much you're going to enjoymaking fun of every aspect of this party on the drive home."
"Now that's a plan I can get behind."
A server passed with a tray of champagne. Callum snagged two glasses, handed one to me.
"Liquid courage," he said.
"I thought you disapproved of adulterating perfectly good beverages."
"That's coffee. Champagne is meant to be consumed with abandon."
"With abandon? Who are you and what have you done with Callum Hayes?"
He clinked his glass against mine. “Bottoms up.”
I sipped the champagne—crisp, expensive, probably older than me—and scanned the room. Everywhere I looked, I felt the gap between these people and myself. They discussed summer homes in the Hamptons. I was calculating whether I could afford to get my car's oil changed this month. They wore jewelry that could pay off my student loans. I was wearing earrings from Target that I hoped passed for real.
A couple approached us—man in his sixties, silver hair slicked back, expensive suit. Woman beside him, early fifties, elegant in a way that screamed old money. Her gaze swept over me, assessing.
"Callum!" The man extended his hand, pumped Callum's with enthusiasm. "Glad you could make it."
"Richard. Eleanor. Thank you for having us." Callum's hand stayed firmly on my back. "May I introduce Willow Monroe."
