Three attempts. Three polite dismissals.
Dr. Ports called my work adequate. Mr. Curry couldn't get away from me fast enough. Ms. Whitmore called me dear and patted my arm like I was a lost puppy.
I was fooling myself thinking I could do this. Thinking I could compete with people who went to Yale, who worked at the Morgan Library, who were born into this world of wealth and connections and effortless confidence.
I'm Seraphina Romano. The girl who works in a dusty bookshop. The girl whose brother gambles away money she doesn't have. The girl who wears borrowed dresses and cheap earrings.
And I was a fool to think one night at a gala could change that.
The bar is my salvation.
I order vodka. Not champagne. Not wine. Vodka.
The bartender raises an eyebrow but pours it without comment, and thankfully, it's free.
If I'm going to stand here humiliated, I might as well get drunk.
I take a sip and close my eyes, letting the burn ground me. Forty minutes. I lasted forty minutes before completely humiliating myself. New personal record.
"Rough night?"
The voice comes from beside me. Male, deep, with a hintof amusement that makes me want to throw my drink in his face.
I'm not in the mood, and I turn around ready to tell this man exactly that.
The words die on my lips.
The man standing next to me is devastating. That's the only word for it. He is tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a tuxedo that fits him like it was sewn directly onto his body. What's really striking are his gray eyes. Against his dark hair, they make him look ethereal and interesting in a way that elevates him from handsome to devastating.
"You could say that," I manage.
He signals the bartender. "Another vodka for her. And I'll have the same."
"I didn't ask you to buy me a drink."
"No, but you look like you need one." He leans against the bar, those strange silver eyes studying me. "Besides, technically, it's an open bar, so I'm not buying anything."
Despite everything, I snort.
"Let me guess," he continues. "You don't want to be here, you're only here for work, and the people you needed to impress just made you feel like you're not good enough."
I stare at him. "Are you psychic or just incredibly nosy?"
"Observant." The bartender sets down our drinks. He picks up his glass, studying me over the rim. "You've been nursing that champagne for twenty minutes. You're wearing a dress that doesn't fit quite right—borrowed, I'm guessing. And you just had three separate conversations that left you looking progressively more defeated."
Heat rises to my cheeks. "Have you been watching me?"
"Everyone watches everyone at these things. It's what we do." He takes a sip of his vodka. "The difference is, I actually pay attention."
"Creepy."
"Honest." His mouth curves slightly. "Besides, you're the most interesting person here."
I can't help it. I laugh. It's a full belly laugh and completely unladylike. "Does that line usually work?"
His eyes twinkle. "Usually, I don't need a line," he says, and I don't doubt it. He's clearly wealthy, and he's handsome. Women probably fawn over him. "But I'm serious. You ordered vodka at a champagne gala. You're clearly intelligent—they were talking to you about rare manuscripts. And you're the only person in this room who looks like they'd rather be literally anywhere else." He tilts his head. "I find that refreshing."
I should be offended. Or at least wary, but there's something magnetic about him that keeps me here at the bar.
