She retreats into the crowd without looking back.
When I turn back, Phoenix is giving me a look of pure innocence as she sips her cocktail. As if I can’t tell she is entirely too pleased with herself.
“Two hundred an hour?”
“Starting rate,” she confirms. “Obviously you’ll need a supplement for hours past midnight. And major holidays. Those should be time-and-a-half at minimum.”
“You know I worked for like a tenth of that rate until recently, right?”
She tilts her head to the side, making a show of considering that. “Well, that was then and this is now. With the way that woman was eye-fucking you, she’s lucky I didn’t quote her $400.”
I feel a surge of emotion at her very obvious and completely unnecessary possessiveness. This girl is impossible and wonderful and I can’t quite believe I’m someone she wants.
“I love you.”
The words fall out of me like something knocked loose. No preamble. No lead-up. Just the raw, unvarnished truth, landing between us like a bomb going off.
Phoenix’s hand stills on her cocktail glass.
The silence that follows stretches for exactly two heartbeats, but in that space my brain has already sprinted through every possible catastrophic outcome. Too soon. Too much. She’s Phoenix Riviera and I’m a bartender from nowhere with ajuvenile criminal record and barely a suitcase worth of clothes to my name.
“Forget I said that.” My voice comes out strangled. “That was…I shouldn’t have…nevermind. The cocktails are stronger than I thought, and you were being sweet about the business cards, and I just?—“
Phoenix’s hands catch my face, fingers pressing into my jaw on either side until she forces my lips to purse and I stop talking.
“What I feel for you is impossible to put into adequate words.” Her eyes are luminous with emotion as she stares up at me. “You saved me. You’ve been exactly what I needed from the day we met.”
Her thumb traces the edge of my cheekbone. One of her eyes glistens, but she doesn’t blink.
“Of course I love you.”
I close the distance between us and her mouth meets mine halfway. She tastes like elderflower and prickly pear and the sharp, undeniable sweetness of something I spent thirty years convinced I’d never deserve.
MASON
The event coordinator finds me near the catering station, clipboard pressed to her chest like a shield.
“Mr. Aldrich? There’s a situation at the entrance.”
I set down my champagne glass. This fundraiser in support of arts education for underprivileged youth is Phoenix’s first event since she returned from that European press tour, so it makes sense that something is going wrong. I’ve been putting out fires of different types for weeks now.
“What kind of situation?” I ask, afraid I already know the answer.
“Someone’s trying to get in without being on the list.” She lowers her voice, glancing around like she’s afraid of being overheard. “She’s claiming to be Phoenix’s plus-one, but I don’t have any additional guests listed. Security has her held at the gate, but she’s becoming…” She pauses, searching for the diplomatic word. “Difficult to manage.”
The sinking feeling starts somewhere in the pit of my stomach and spreads outward.
I already know exactly what’s happening and my level of eagerness to deal with it is somewhere below zero.
But better me than Phoenix.
“I’ll handle it.”
The coordinator’s relief is palpable. “Thank you. Please follow me.”
We make our way through the crowd. Phoenix is deep in discussion with a producer near the fireplace, her hands moving animatedly as she talks. I make a point of skirting around a pillar in the hopes she doesn’t notice me leaving.
At the entrance, two security guards in dark suits flank a figure I’d recognize anywhere—the platinum hair, the fur coat that’s completely unnecessary for LA weather, the rigid posture of someone who refuses to acknowledge they’re not in control of the situation.
