“Brookes, who’s the girl?”
I ignore every question being barked at me, keeping my chin held high, not chancing even a sideways glance at anyone as I repeat over and over again in my mind exactly what the team of expensive PR specialists have been drilling into me ever since my release from rehab last year.Show no emotion. Back stiff. Head up. Eyes locked straight ahead. Do not, under any circumstance, let the whispered words of judgement get the better of you.
Taking it all in stride, I follow the red carpet, waving to a few of the fans yelling my name from across the street, stopping every few feet to allow the photographers to get a shot of me. Ofus. I make sure never to let go of Poppy. Right now, I’m the cool, calm, collected PR version of Brookes Devereaux that I need to be. At least, I am on the outside. On the inside, I’m dying a slow, painful death.
When I look down to check on Poppy, I’m taken aback by the way she’s gazing up at me, a look of awe in her dark blue eyes, and with a tight smile, I lean in and press my lips to her ear, whispering loud enough for her to hear over the din of the chaotic crowd, “Maybe stop staring at me and smile for the cameras…”
Poppy startles, and I don’t miss the way her cheeks flush as she focuses out over the sea of photographers, offering them her most brilliant smile. She’s kind of a natural. Who knew?
By the time we make it into the ballroom, I lead the way,removing my arm from Poppy’s waist and instead, finding her hand so I don’t lose her as we navigate the crowd.
Inside is fancy, all dim, romantic lighting, white linen, fresh flowers, and pretentious assholes with too much money, just here for the photo op, as far as the eye can see. I’m immediately on edge, unable to breathe, and I fucking hate it.
“Brookes Devereaux!”
I turn to see an older man with white hair beaming up at me, a woman at least a quarter of his age hanging off his arm.
“Oh my goodness!” The man gasps, his eyes blowing out. And I know this look. Fuck’s sake. “Brookes, I’m a… a huge fan.” He stumbles over his words, clearly awestruck.
I force a smile, but before I can interject he continues and it takes all I have not to roll my eyes because I really,reallydo not want to cause a fucking scene tonight.
“I stayed up until four a.m. watching you at the Dubai Cup last year. That albatross on the par five was…” The man shakes his head, laughing incredulously, at a loss for words, it seems.
“Um, thank you,” is the best I can do, pressing my lips together in a tight smile, hoping he picks up my vibe.
Something squeezes around my hand, and I startle, remembering that Poppy is right here next to me. When I meet her eyes, she offers me a knowing smile and steps in.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but you wouldn’t happen to know where the restrooms are, would you?” she asks with a saccharinely sweet smile.
“Oh, yes,” the man says, correcting himself. “Just past the bar, to your left.”
“Thank you so much!” Poppy beams.
We turn, and I continue holding her hand tightly as we navigate the maze of people. When I catch the dead giveaway of heads snapping in my direction, eyes laser-focused on me, I focus on my breaths.In… out. In… out.
Poppy squeezes my hand and I glance down at her.
“You’ve got this, Brookes,” she says with a soft smile. “But, if at any time you feel like you need to leave, just say the word.”
“What’s the word?” I quirk a brow.
Poppy glances up in thought, a soft smile ghosting her lips before she leans in and lowers her voice with a whispered, “Megalodon.”
Biting back my smirk, I nod and we continue through the party, Poppy’s hand in mine like a comfort blanket I didn’t know I needed, one I don’t know I’ll be ready to let go of come October.
CHAPTER 16
POPPY
Growing up, the closest I ever came to a charity gala was watching an episode ofGossipGirl. I wouldn’t say I come from a poor family, especially not after my mother remarried, but we definitely were not in whatever the hell this tax bracket is. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been momentarily blinded by a diamond the size of a golf ball. This is a whole other world for me. And, frankly, I’m not sure I like it.
“Champagne?”
I stop suddenly, almost plowing down a pretty waitress, grinning from me to Brookes and back again, holding a tray of champagne flutes, the bubbles catching the light of the chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
Brookes tenses beside me.
“No, thank you.” I shake my head.
