"Tell me about it," I mutter, grabbing the bottle; I scan the nearly empty kitchen, but can't find any flutes."Good lord.This is pathetic.I don't have any glasses."
Delia taps her phone."There."
Nathaniel's tablet chimes as the donation appears on his end.He pauses his check tabulation, taking a sip from a plastic water bottle.Whatever he sees makes him spew the mouthful of water halfway across the room.
Whirling so fast his chair topples over, he stares at Delia."Is that a mistake?"
With a prim, confident smile, she shakes her head."Not at all."
He gives me an incredulous, urgentcome see thislook.So I take a glance at the screen—fifteen grand here, forty there, a hundred here, twenty.The last donation recorded is…
Five hundred thousand dollars?
My head whips up, and I find her eyes."That's…insanely generous of you, Delia."
She shrugs."My husband and I are firm believers that wealth is meant to be used for the betterment of all, not just us."
"Hello?DeeDee?"A deep male voice echoes from the courtyard.
"In here, babe!"Delia calls.
A moment later, a tall man with absurdly broad shoulders swaggers into the back area.He’s dressed in a bespoke tux, a watch glittering on his left wrist—a thing properly called a timepiece that likely cost as much as the building we're in.His hair is dark blonde and a little too long; his jaw is shadowed with stubble.
His face is one just about everyone knows—Hunter Hawkins.
Which makes the woman, Delia Hawkins-Badd, his wife.
Which makes further sense of how she could casually drop a half-mil donation from her phone without batting an eye.
Holy shit.
Holy shit.
Holy shit.
I glance at her; she's smirking, likely because she knows exactly the effect her husband has on people.
The holy shit effect worsens as he approaches.His personal presence is overpowering and intense, his brown-green gaze sharp and predatory—like an animal, not a skeezy human.He's massive, his arms stretching the sleeves of his bespoke tuxedo, his shoulders so broad you could land a Piper Cub on them.
"You're the hostess of the event tonight?"he asks, in that recognizable growl.
"Yes, sir, Mr.Hawkins."I extend my hand."Demi Kaplan, co-owner of Demiza Event Planning.My partner is…otherwise occupied.But on behalf of Demiza Events, and more importantly, The Autonomy Project, I just wanted to thank you both for your incredibly generous donation."
He shakes my hand, his grip firm but gentle."Yeah, sure."He glances at his wife."You ask her yet?"
Delia shakes her head."Not yet.I was about to when you barged in."
"I was hoping they had food,” he grumbles.“That micro gastronomy bullshit is about as filling as eating grass.I even had Luis drive around the block, but everything is closed, and if I eat fast food, we'll both die."
"Ahhh, well?"I wince, my mind racing for solutions that will impress one of the most famous, wealthy, and influential human beings on the planet."I live four blocks from here, and I know a pizza place that delivers late."
"At…" he checks that dazzling timepiece."One in the morning?"
I grin, shrug."I'm friends with the owner.She knows I have an event tonight.She always sends me a cheese pizza and a two-liter of diet."
"I'll drop another half-mil for the cause if you feed me, Miss Kaplan."His face remains impassive—he isn't joking.
"I think that may be a slight overpayment for some pizza.How about you help me get my partner home and we'll call it even."I indicate my passed-out BFF, one foot hanging out the end of the booth.
