White tablecloths.
Servers floating around with trays of champagne like we’re in some kind of movie about rich people pretending to be classy.
Mitchell Knight is hosting and he spared absolutely no expense, which means the ballroom is packed with sponsors, local celebrities, sports reporters, and fans who paid an obscene amount of money to rub elbows with professional rugby players.
Which also means Noah can’t arrive with me.
He had to come with the team.
There were meet-and-greet photos, sponsor obligations, and whatever other PR magic Finley cooked up to make tonight a success.
So here I am.
Standing near the edge of the ballroom in a dress Carolina helped me pick out, pretending I’m not scanning the room every few seconds for one particularly tall, broad-shouldered hooker.
I’m wearing baby blue with sinful negligee beneath that I can't wait to show him.
I finally spot him across the floor.
And wow.
The man cleans up well.
Noah’s wearing a dark suit that fits his massive frame like it was tailored just for him, his dark hair combed back, that confident grin flashing as he poses with a group of fans.
One woman throws an arm around him.
Another presses a little too close.
And because I am apparently a jealous idiot now, my stomach does a weird little flip.
It shouldn’t bother me.
He’s a professional athlete.
This is literally part of the job.
Still, I’m staring a bit too long when a familiar voice slides in beside me.
“Well, look at that.”
My shoulders stiffen immediately.
McMurray.
Of course.
He leans against the table beside me like we’re old friends.
“Your hubby seems pretty popular tonight,” he says, nodding toward Noah across the room.
I don’t even bother looking at him.
“He’s not myhubby.”
“Right,” he says, smirking.“Sure looks cozy, though.”
I glance back toward Noah despite myself.He’s freed himself from Miss Grabby-Hands, which is awesome.
