Bad news.
Cole Hartwell’s hand was inside my dress exactly fifty-three minutes ago.His fingers traced the curve of my breast, and his touch lingers like a bad decision I’d make again.
Let’s just say my nipples RSVP’d to tonight’s sleeping arrangements with ahardyes.
It’s not my fault. It’s physics. Cufflink-related, involuntary physics. If I think about it for one more second, I will catch on fire, and HR does not cover spontaneous human combustion.
My mind welcomes the smoky jazz drifting in from overhead speakers. A sea of stunning men and women—dressed to distract—sparkle under the chandeliers. Candlelight flirts with linen-draped tables, orbiting the dance floor, daring partygoers to seize the night.
The monitor station hums in front of me. Three screens areglowing, timeline taped along the side in precise, neat blocks like a battle plan. The donor overlay flashes, tested and retested. The chat queue keeps refreshing, just as it should. When the moment comes, I am ready. Triple-checked.
Juliette works the perimeter with her clipboard, her immaculate posture carving a straight line through the arriving guests. Her expression is the practiced neutral of someone cataloguing damages before they happen.
She steps onto the riser.Stopsat the statue.
A sculpted California sea lion is poised on a rock formation, so lifelike you half expect it to demand a fish. Hand-crafted by a ceramic artist named Lyra, who donated it because she grew up watching sea lions from her grandmother’s porch. It’s her favorite piece.
The foam cannon at the base hisses, releasing a low, controlled drift of mist every thirty seconds that rolls over the rocks. In the blue-green gala light, it looks exactly like it’s supposed to: as if the ocean reaches the stage(but mango scented).
Juliette watches a simulated wave cycle. Foam sprays, spreads, dissolves. She gives one crisp nod, checks her clipboard, and moves on.
Phew!I exhale a forgotten breath.
Cole is stage right, manhandling a stubborn spotlight.Why does he have to look that good in a tux?He hasn’t glanced my way once. Which is…mature. Responsible.Exactly what two rational adultsshoulddo. And I’m totally not noticing his forearms as he torques that bolt. Definitely not.
His cufflink glints under the light, and my nipples sayhello.
Traitors. Both of you. We talked about this.
The air shifts.
Dr. Sienna Alvarez is here.
Loose curls. Green dress. She cuts through the room of glamorous strangers—calculated, unbothered, dangerous—the same way I bet she navigates surf rescue operations.
She stops beside me, surveying the gala. “Not bad. Tell me this rakes in cash, or I’m repurposing those centerpieces for The Salty Old Sea Hag.” She pauses.“The Salty Old Sea Hagis our boat.”
I smile. “Yes. Fundraising is the goal.”
“The Hag’s shower is actively hostile,” she whispers. “The water pressure is her petty revenge. After a week at sea, my curls surrender to her wrath.”
I laugh.
“Who knows? We could fund an entire remodel off one generous donor,” I say. “Hot water. Maybe even conditioner.”
“Don’t you get my hopes up now.”
She muses over her dress. “Haven’t worn one of these in years. Sea lions don’t judge your wardrobe, only your fish-throwing skills.”
There’s something almost shy under the humor. Not insecure, just unused to this environment.
“You look fantastic,” I say. “Like, excellent-water-pressure good.”
“Thanks.” She smirks, like she’s sizing me up as competition. “Don’t do anything fun without me. I need to go find my small-talk juice so I can get through this.”
Every head pivots to track her walk to the bar.
Everyone except Cole.
