31. Evangeline
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
evangeline
A fter close to an hour of networking at Anita’s side, meeting dozens of people whose names and faces all blur together, she finally releases us to mingle on our own. Lily immediately vanishes toward where we last saw Rye, leaving me standing alone at the end of a buffet table of picked-over hors d’oeuvres.
Exhaustion creeps over me as I scan the dwindling crowd for Wilder. I don’t see him, which isn’t much of a surprise. After Jax and Eddie left a little past ten, he probably found somewhere dark and quiet to chill until I’m ready to leave. I couldn’t be more ready, but before setting us free, Anita politely ordered us to make ourselves available for another twenty minutes.
“You look like you could use this,” says a voice to my right.
Forcing a pleasant expression onto my tired face, I turn to find a man holding two glasses of white wine, one of them extended my way. He’s handsome in a men’s-cologne-ad way, with light brown hair, an easy smile, and hazel eyes. The starched white collar of his dress shirt gapes open, framing a swath of tanned skin. Despite an air of casualness, he reeks of wealth, from his shoes and watch to the suit he’s wearing, which fits too well for it not to be hand tailored. While he looks vaguely familiar, I’m positive Anita didn’t introduce me to him tonight.
As good as a glass of wine sounds, and as much as he doesn’t look like a creep, there’s no way I’m taking an unsealed drink from a stranger.
“Thank you, but I’ll pass.” Mindful of the fact I have to play nice, I soften the rejection with a smile I hope looks real. “Wine will only put me to sleep at this point.”
He nods sagely and sets the glasses on the buffet table. “Coffee then,” he says, offering me his arm. “Shall we?”
Irritation flashes in me. My gaze flickers around us in a futile search for a reason to refuse and snags on Anita. She’s standing about ten feet away and looking right at me. For a second, I think she’s going to rescue me. Then she stabs a finger toward my companion and mouths, “Talk to him.”
Damn. He’s someone important, then.
Swallowing a sigh, I clasp the man’s forearm. “Sounds great.”
The expensive material of his suit tickles my fingertips as we walk toward the bar. This close, I can smell a light, expensive cologne. When his head dips toward mine, I fight the urge to pull away.
“It’s torture, isn’t it?” he asks in a soft, teasing voice. “Having to be polite to strange men?”
I’m so startled I almost trip. The arm under my hand flexes, warm fingers landing on mine to steady me. “Whoa there.” He chuckles, the sound warm and infectious. Drawing to a stop, he looks down at me with an indecipherable expression. Something in the realm of sympathy.
“I promise not to ask you twenty invasive questions, give you my business card, or invite you to dinner. In fact, we don’t even have to talk. I just know Anita. You had about thirty seconds before she sent someone far more annoying than me your way.” He shrugs. “You’ve been going nonstop all night, and I figured you deserved a break.”
I blame my tired brain for the fact I simply stare at him until he winks and draws me back into motion. At the bar, he releases my arm and orders two oat milk lattes, then chats with the bartender as she makes them. Feeling both grateful and baffled to be ignored, I watch as he leans across the counter and whispers something that makes her blush. The sight of his cheeky grin—totally different from the polite smile he gave me—does what his words couldn’t, allowing me to finally relax.
When he eventually turns and hands me a latte, I don’t have to force my smile. “Thanks… I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”
“Clay Eaton. Nice to meet you, Eva.” He looks around us, then nods. “Follow me.”
He leads me outside the tent to a cluster of empty teak chairs set around a low table, the area thankfully well lit. A patio heater radiates nearby, chasing away the chill. I settle in the chair closest to the heater, closing my eyes briefly in relief. When I open them, Clay gives me a knowing grin.
“Thanks again,” I say haltingly. “My feet are killing me.”
He nods and sips his drink, gaze moving from my face to roam the crowd remaining in the tent. I scan the crowd, too. But the person I’m looking for is nowhere to be seen.
“Anita’s spying on us,” murmurs Clay. “She’s going to think I put that frown on your face. No, don’t look for her. Pretend I said something funny. Or better yet, think about that grandpa’s sick moves on the dance floor earlier.” My soft laugh brings a satisfied smile to his face. “Knew that would work.” He glances at the tent again. “Okay, we’re in the clear.”
I take a deeper drink of my latte, appreciating the creamy warmth and the faint bitterness of espresso, and try to relax. Easier said than done. Unlike me, Clay seems perfectly content sitting in silence with a complete stranger, his head tilted back and eyes closed.
When I catch a glimpse of Anita and Mallory staring in our direction, I’m almost relieved to have an excuse to socialize. “So did you order oat milk because you like it or because you know dairy messes with airways?”
His eyes open, humor creasing the corners. “The latter. Though I don’t dislike it.”
“Know a lot of singers?”
Another slight smile. “You could say that.”
I tilt my head, my eyes narrowing at his evasiveness. “How do you know Anita, anyway?”
Expensive fabric whispers as he straightens. “Haven’t you heard? If you throw stones at a publicist, nine out of ten times you’ll hit an entertainment lawyer, too.”
I blink in surprise, reassessing him. “An entertainment lawyer, huh?”
He grins. “You sound surprised.”
“I am, a little. No offense, but I figured you were the son of an Indigo exec or some other industry bigwig.”
His brows lift. “How so?”
Emboldened by the humor in his eyes, I wave vaguely at him. “All… that. The tailored suit. The shoes. Even the haircut is a tell. Plus, you can’t be more than thirty.”
He chuckles. “Well, I appreciate the compliment. Backhanded as it may be.”
I grin back at him. “You’re welcome.”
His eyes lock on mine and his smile changes. With a spark of panic, I realize it’s the same one he gave the bartender.
I blurt, “I’m not flirting with you!”
Clay laughs heartily. “Duly noted. For the record, I’m not flirting with you, either. I prefer women with fully developed frontal lobes.”
I choke on laughter. “Rude.”
His smile softens to a teasing curl. “That being said, if you’re single at twenty-five, give me a call.” My mouth drops, but he continues idly, “To answer your roundabout question, I turn thirty in June and have been practicing for almost five years. I like to think I’ve carved my own success, but you got me on one count—Eaton and Associates is a family business. Full disclosure: I’m only here because I stole the invite from my much more successful father’s desk.”
“Ah,” I say with an exaggerated nod. “Then you’re a fan .”
He laughs again. “I’ll admit to being a Glow convert after tonight, but the theft was at my sister’s behest. She’s around here somewhere. Dark hair? Crazy vibes? Also lacking full brain development?”
I roll my eyes but can’t help laughing. “Doesn’t sound familiar. What’s her name? I don’t want to leave without meeting her.”
Clay opens his mouth, but then his gaze lifts over my head and he closes it. A second later, a shadow falls over me and Wilder asks, “Evangeline? You ready to go?”
“Hi! Yes, absolutely.” I jump to my feet and offer Clay an apologetic smile. “Sorry. You’ve been great company, but I’m wiped out.”
He nods, smiling affably. “Completely understand.”
Wilder’s chest brushes my back, a hand curling around my waist and flattening over my stomach. While my body instantly lights up, my head tumbles with surprise. Neither of our families is here tonight, but there are still people around who know our families. Though we didn’t discuss boundaries outright, I know it’s why his kiss onstage was platonic and at least part of why we separated right when we came outside.
Maybe he’s jealous , whispers a small, pleased voice inside me. I slap that voice into a mental closet.
“Clay,” Wilder says stiffly.
Looking between them, my confusion spikes—they clearly know each other. Clay’s expression is aloof, almost cold, his eyes flat and dark. He’s like an entirely different man than the one I was laughing with a minute ago. A shiver rolls down my body.
“Wilder,” he says as he stands. His eyes move to me and soften slightly. “Great meeting you, Eva. Have a good night.”
My tongue tangles; by the time it unwinds, Clay has disappeared back into the tent. Wilder stares after him until I palm his face, directing his gaze to me.
“What was that about?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
I frown. “I don’t know what kind of beef you guys have, but he was perfectly nice and didn’t hit on me”— overtly, at least —“which puts him in a very small percentage of the men I spoke to tonight.”
I don’t mean the words as an accusation, but I feel him stiffen. Before I can clarify that I’m not upset he couldn’t stay by my side, he envelops me in his arms and kisses my forehead. I inhale a midnight rainstorm wrapped in warm leather. My body instantly relaxes, and I muse that his touch is a drug. One I’m happily addicted to.
“Don’t be fooled by his nice-guy act,” he says after a moment. “Clay is a manipulative bastard just like his stepsister, who ambushed me ten minutes ago.”
I lift my head. “Huh? Who’s his stepsister?”
His jaw clenches and releases. “Kendra.”