Chapter 7 #2
The venue for the Firefighters’ Charity Gala is a historic inn at the edge of Silver Creek.
This facility is used for everything from benefits to bingo tournaments.
But tonight, with the addition of soft twinkle lights and silver chiffon panels sweeping from marble pillars, the space has been transformed into one of elegance.
Beyond an archway comprising shimmering Christmas bulbs, numerous tables are arranged around a gleaming dance floor.
An orchestra is gathered in the left corner, playing a gentle rendition of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” and a coffee bar is situated to the right, my favorite barista standing behind a stainless-steel espresso machine.
Tilly glances over and makes an exaggerated motion of fanning her face, followed by an enthusiastic thumbs up.
I’m grateful for her support, but man, I wish I had even an ounce of her poise.
Seconds ago, I nearly faceplanted into a potted poinsettia while climbing the steps to the building.
Fletcher deftly clasped my elbow just in time.
Fletcher follows my gaze. “Ah, your friend.” He helps me out of my wrap and hands it to the attendant.
“Tilly’s working the drinks and dessert tables, but I’m hoping she gets a break long enough to hit the dance floor. She loves dancing.” I throw Fletcher an obvious hint he clearly doesn’t catch, given that his attention is hyper-focused on his cufflinks.
He cleans up nice. He moves about with the ease of a man who wears tuxedos regularly. Meanwhile, my contouring bra is digging a trench into my skin. Though even shapewear discomfort can’t dampen my mood because the ambiance is something straight out of a movie. “Everything looks so beautiful.”
His gaze runs over me. “I agree.”
I fight a blush. “Thank you.” My gown’s a 1960s vintage, but no one would know.
I found the floor-length evening gown at an estate sale, and it became my first restoration project.
It had some fraying along the seam, so I decided it would be the perfect place for a side slit.
I’m not usually one for a thigh-high opening, but in this case, it works.
The black silk whispers over my form. Nothing flashy.
Just a quiet statement that matches my style.
I completed the look by sweeping my hair in an updo with a few tendrils framing my face.
His mouth quirks. “I thought you hated exercise.”
My brow lowers. Is he talking about the Turkey Trot? “Running? Yeah, it’s not my thing.”
He looks pointedly at my bare arm. “You don’t get that from waffle fries.”
Nope. You don’t. My muscle tone isn’t some indicator that I love working out. Not even close. But I’m not going to explain the motivation to Fletcher. It’s too personal. I smile my thanks at his masculine appreciation and leave it at that.
Fletcher introduces me to several people I’ve seen around town, though never actually spoken with. The banquet room is quickly filling, and the dance floor is attracting more couples. A silent auction lines the side of the space by the coffee bar.
Fletcher nods at the tables brimming with goods that will hopefully bring in support for the fire department. “Did The Memory Bank donate something?”
“Yeah, a vintage basket filled with tea items.” I put it together last week after Chief Garrison Todd visited the store, asking for donations.
Though I did turn down his request of my stocking their firefighters’ yearly calendar.
It’s for a great cause, but last month Adelaide tried to sell me a cardboard cutout of some guy named Fabio.
I suspect he was once popular, considering after I refused, four female customers got into a bidding war over it.
Adelaide raked in a hundred bucks, and I scored a headache.
Half-dressed people do not belong in my shop.
As if I conjured him up, Chief Todd approaches. “Hey, Greta.” He beams. “Did you change your mind about the calendars? I got a box in my truck.”
“Goes against my brand. All my merchandise is at least fifty years old.”
His dull blue eyes spark with mischief. “Mr. October is fifty-seven.”
I snort. “Hard pass, Chief.”
“Oh well. Thought I’d try.” He takes a sly glance at Fletcher and lowers his voice. “If you need me to introduce you to some single firefighters, let me know.”
Fletcher chuckles. “Are you trying to take my date away?”
“Not at all.” Chief Todd’s innocent expression seems well-practiced. No doubt it’s one he uses on Mrs. Todd. “Have you seen Remington yet?” he asks Fletcher.
“No, but he doesn’t like this kind of thing.”
The chief’s jowls shake with a heavy sigh.
“He’s had a rough year. I guess we can cut him some slack.
” The two men continue the conversation while I try to keep up.
After several nods and some well-placed I-agrees, the chief’s gaze drifts over my shoulder.
“There’s the fire marshal. Excuse me.” He gives a parting smile.
Fletcher angles toward me. “Let’s put our stuff down, then how about a dance?”
“Certainly.”
I follow him toward a prominently placed table at the front of the room.
Of course, he’d be seated near the podium since he’s the keynote speaker.
I leave my clutch on the pristine white tablecloth beside my place setting as Fletcher chats with an older couple.
Fletcher sends me an apologetic smile, but I’m fine just glancing about, taking in the general splendor.
My gaze scans the space but freezes on a familiar form striding through the door.
Leo?
My throat goes dry. Dressed in a fitted tuxedo, the man looks like a hundred daydreams followed by a thousand heartbreaks.
Those wavy brown locks gleam beneath the chandelier.
Sadly, my inspection is cut short by his angling away.
Like Fletcher, he seems comfortable in his tux as he moves with athletic grace toward a group of guys by the archway.
I try not to observe how Leo’s tux is perfectly sculpted to his form, making the other men seem like they scraped pieces of their suits from their grandpa’s closet.
Why is he here? A few in his circle are speaking animatedly, but Leo, while engaged, doesn’t seem to share their excitement. He turns, his gaze drifting across the room until landing on me.
I know the exact second recognition hits because his head rears slightly back, then he leans forward as if the movement will give him a clearer view. He takes a slow sweep of my figure, and my skin burns at every place his gaze touches.
He says something to his friends and moves toward me, determination marking his steps. That is, until he spots Fletcher, who has just rejoined my side.
Leo slows his stride, his gaze hooking on my date and holding. “Fletcher, good to see you.” The tight lines framing his eyes seem to counteract his greeting.
Standing side by side, the two men couldn’t be more opposite. Fletcher is polished perfection with his smooth jawline and center-parted hair, while Leo’s charm lies in the rebellious tousle of his dark locks and roguish, two-day stubble.
Fletcher’s smile is faint. “Ah, Remington. Chief was just looking for you. We weren’t sure you’d show up tonight. You’ve been kind of scarce since the incident .”
Remington? Who … what? My stomach dips. Why did Fletcher call Leo by another name? And what incident is he talking about?
As questions dance upon my parted lips, Fletcher places his hand on the small of my back—a move Leo doesn’t miss—and says, “Greta Carlton, have you met Remington Mathis?”
Mathis? Didn’t I just hear that name somewhere?
But my brain has clicked off those mental tabs and is overheating with this new information.
I narrow my eyes and tilt my head to the side.
“Hmm, I’m not sure.” I cross my arms and take my time studying the imposter before me. “He doesn’t look like a Remington.”
Fletcher laughs as if everything I say is comical. “Well, that’s his name. What else should we call him?”
Oh, I can call him some interesting things. No wonder I couldn’t find him this past year. He gave me a fake name! What else is phony about him? I’m questioning everything now.
For being caught in a lie, Leo doesn’t recoil. If anything, with his confident posture and steady gaze, he seems emboldened. “Greta, I?—”
I face Fletcher, cutting Leo the Liar from the conversation with a cold turn of my shoulder. “Are you ready to dance?”
My date flashes a smile. “Absolutely.”