“Why don’t you look where you’re going?” the older man, who’s mopping champagne from his lapel with a napkin—or trying to—snaps. “See what you’ve done? This tuxedo is a Tom Ford. It will need to be dry cleaned. And you’re paying for it.”
I don’t bother pointing out to the pompous asshole that it was an accident. Or that I’m just as soaked as he is, and you don’t see me bitching and moaning about it. Or that if he can afford a Tom Ford tuxedo, he’s clearly got more money to spend on dry cleaning than I do.
“I’ll take care of it,” Connor insists, kneeling beside me and gingerly picking up slivers of glass, which he adds to the pile I’ve already started on my now wet, empty tray. “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have distracted her.”
“You didn’t,” I lie. “And I don’t need you riding to my rescue.”
Again. First the kitchen, now this. It’s humiliating, how I can’t seem to hold on to cups or glasses when Connor’s around.
“What’s going on here?”
Lloyd is back. Yippee. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse. He’s the last person I need to see right now. I was hoping I’d have all this cleaned up and be back on the floor before he heard about what happened.
If he even heard about what happened.
“This server—” The pompous asshole waves his damp napkin at me. “—dumped an entire tray of drinks on my designer tuxedo.”
“Which I’ve already offered to have dry cleaned.” Connor stands, wiping his hands on his tux pants like he doesn’t care if he has to get them cleaned, too. He’s got at least four inches on the pompous asshole, who subtly takes a step back but refuses to completely back down.
“That doesn’t change the fact that I have to spend the rest of the evening in a wet formal wear.”
Lloyd puts a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience. Why don’t you come with me? I’m sure the staff can find some towels to help you dry off.”
He looks down at me, still crouched on the sticky-sweet carpet surrounded by glass shards, and the expression on his face tells me I’m screwed even before the words leave his mouth. “Hand in your tray and go. And don’t forget to clock out.”
“Are you firing me?” My stomach drops to my sensible, flat-soled shoes. There goes my safety net.
“That’s above my pay grade. But I will be filing a report with the corporate office. Someone should be in touch with you shortly. And the cost of the glasses you broke will be deducted from your pay.”
Great. There goes a huge chunk of tonight’s pay. I leave my tray on the floor and scramble to my feet, glass crunching under the soles of my aforementioned sensible shoes. The rest of the mess will have to wait. “But—”
“It wasn’t her fault,” Connor pipes up, interrupting me. “I’m the one who distracted her by striking up conversation.”
“Fraternizing with the guests. I’ll add that to my report.” Lloyd steers the pompous asshole toward the huge mahogany double doors that lead into and out of the ballroom. “Come on, let’s get you those towels. You’ll feel better once you’re dry.”
Connor starts to go after them, but I step in his path, blocking his way. “Haven’t you done enough already?”
“If you just let me talk to him I can—”
“Can what?” My hands ball into fists on my hips, my go-to power stance. “Give him another reason to fire me?”
He doesn’t answer, but at least he has the good sense to look embarrassed.
“Don’t worry about me,” I continue. “I’m like your cats. I always manage to land on my feet.”
It’s a bit of bravado, but there’s an element of truth to it, too. The life of an actor isn’t an easy one. You have to learn how to roll with the punches and come up swinging.
He starts to say something, but full-name Elizabeth materializes out of nowhere, like she apparated from Hogwarts. She sidles up to Connor, digging her blood-red claws—sorry-not-sorry, nails—into his forearm. “There you are, darling. I wondered where you’d run off to. Some of the board members would like to speak with you.”
Her use of the endearment stirs up all my earlier suspicions. Maybe they are more than donor/donee. And maybe it’s none of my damn business, and I’m an idiot for caring.
“Go mingle with your adoring public. I’ll see you at home.” I throw in the last bit just to see the stunned look on Elizabeth’s face, and she doesn’t disappoint. Watching her features fall is like witnessing an avalanche. Fast and furious.
But my perverse satisfaction in seeing her reaction is short lived. Because I know what she doesn’t.That while we might share the same address for the time being, the chances of Connor and me having any intimate, late-night chats—or even being in the same damn room for more than a few seconds—are about as slim as being struck by lightning.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Connor
