Page 136 of A Dangerous Kind of Love

I stare at her. Here we go.

“Twenty-four.”

“Oh my, just a young girl,” the same woman that asked if I was a bartender says.

I exhale.

“Is that an appetizer table?”

“Yes,” Teresa says. “You must try the caviar. It’s flown in from—“ She pauses. “Shall I come with you?”

“No, that’s okay.” I smile. “You stay. I’ll be right back.”

Her eyes linger. “If you’re quite sure.”

“I am.”

I push back from the table, offering one last polite smile before I stand. I can feel their eyes follow me like I’ve stepped off a stage instead of out of a chair. People are staring at me, and it’s not only our table. Other tables stare too. I catch it as I walk past—heads turning, conversations dipping for a second before picking back up. The farther I get from them, the easier it is to breathe.

The food table stretches along the wall, draped in white linen. Everything is small and way too pretty to pick up and eat. There are silver trays, tiny spoons, and little stacks of things I don’t recognize. There’s caviar, like Teresa said. It’s black, glossy, and sitting on ice.

Absolutely not.

I move past it, scanning the rest. There are little round things that look safe, something on toast, skewers with tomatoes and cheese, and a tray of tiny sandwiches that at least resemble actual food.

A waiter steps in beside me like he’s been waiting for me to get here. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

“Sure.” I point to the round ones. “What’s that?”

“Blue crab cakes with citrus aioli.”

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll take one of those.”

He sets a small plate in my hand, already reaching for the tongs.

I shift my finger to the next tray. “And that—on the little toast?”

“Filet mignon on crostini with horseradish cream.”

“Yeah, that.”

He places it carefully next to the crab cake, like he’s building something delicate instead of handing me food.

I glance down the table again, landing on the small sandwiches. “And those?”

“Brioche with aged white cheddar and roasted tomato confit.”

I pause and nod. “I’ll take one of those too.”

I step off to the side and look back at the table. Everyone’s talking and laughing politely. I don’t want to go back over there. Not yet. Not until Michael comes back. I scan the room and spot an empty table. Perfect.

“Is anyone sitting there?” I ask a waiter.

He shakes his head. “No, ma’am, but your table—“

“I just need a minute to eat before I go back,” I say.

He nods and pulls out a chair.