He adjusts his bowtie, aware that I’m appreciating him. “It looks sharp, but this penguin suit is not comfortable.”
I squint at him. “Don’t fidget. You fidget, the whole damn thing starts coming undone.”
Orlando cocks up a smile. “You look good, by the way.”
I frown and smooth down the front of my jacket, palm flat to my chest. “Everything good with Mel this week?”
“She saved my ass. And now I know how to give a proper interview, so I guess that’s a plus.”
I grunt. “Show me what you got tonight.” I lower my voice to a grumble. “Make it through to the end without ending up in your undies.”
“Ha, ha,” Orlando replies.
We haven’t been in touch except for texting to confirm that we’re still on for our hotel date Sunday. Every other conversation has been strictly business. I catch myself wanting to ask how he’s actually doing. Attention like he’s getting this week can wear on you. But if I give him an inch, I’m worried he’ll take a mile.
Just being around Orlando makes me horny. Like his scent wakes something up.
Everyone who matters in Philly sports will be here tonight. Orlando knows this is an important event for both of us. It puts me on edge to share the space with him, but it does give me another chance to assess. Can I trust Orlando at an event like this, or will he try to pull me into a closet?
“I’ve never been to a gala,” Orlando says.
I frown. “I hate this kind of shit,” I say as I gesture toward the building. “But the food is good, and I believe in the charity. After-school programs kept me out of trouble when I was a kid,” I add, sharing more than I intended.
“Yeah, me too,” Orlando agrees. “My family couldn’t afford all the fancy soccer camps, but there were always local soccer leagues I could join. After-school programs are kind of everything. I’m definitely writing a check.”
We step through the doors, entering the ornate space. The polished stone lobby opens into a ballroom, lit by countless chandeliers and the light that filters through the glass ceiling. Inside the ballroom, Orlando casts his eyes around appreciatively, admiring the architecture, and slides one hand in his pocket as he turns back to me.
“Why do you hate this?” he asks and takes an oyster from someone walking by with a tray. “Seems fine to me.”
I grab two oysters when they’re offered to me and immediately throw one back, gulping it down. “Because this is a work event,” I say and eat the other, sucking out and swallowing the salty, lemony goodness. “For me. You. And everyone here. It’s work disguised as play. The worst kind of work.”
Orlando holds my eye, lifts his oyster, and slowly eases it back. His tongue lingers at his bottom lip just long enough to get my attention but stay subtle, riding the line.
He gives me a professional smile. “I’ll be on my best behavior. We’re up against Boston again next week. I’m planning to kick their ass with a clear head and no scandals biting at my butt.”
I take his oyster shell to deposit it aside with mine, folding them all in a napkin. It’s not until I’m done and I turn back to him that I realize I did it without asking.
I kick myself internally for the faux pas. It’s not my job to take care of him. I just got confused for some reason.
If someone noticed the gesture, would they infer that something’s going on?
Orlando gives me a funny smile. “Into the belly of the beast?”
I turn my eyes out over the crowd, putting myself into work mode.
“I need to do the rounds. Make sure the event photographers get some flattering pictures of you. And remember, everyone is eavesdropping. Keep your mouth shut.”
“Try not to stomp too hard when you’re barging around.”
I snort out something that almost sounds like a laugh as I walk away. My eyes search for Patel, but I seem to run into everyone but him. My saving grace is that most people won’t approach me, my brash attitude doing its job. But without Mel here, I’ve got a long list of people I need to approach myself, shake hands and remind everyone how talented our athletes are.
Considering the extra headache I’m creating for my business partner with the Orlando arrangement, I eat the shit sandwich and just hope she gets more time with Marshall after his game than I’m getting with Patel here.
A live band starts up under the rear arches, which means it’s time for dinner, leaving me no real choice but to give up the search for Patel or look desperate. The tables are prepared in the rear conservatory, white-clothed squares under stained glass, and everyone begins moving in that direction slowly.
When I arrive to the table, it’s Orlando I’m facing again.
Of course. Mel’s ticket. He has her seat.
