Chapter 15 #2
For a moment the world stops turning, and all that exists is him and me, the softness of his lips and the heat of his fingers tightening on my waist.
But it’s over just as quickly as it begins. I’m disoriented as he rushes me past the photographers and camera crews. He raises one hand as we pass, his other arm still wrapped protectively around me.
His mother stands on the other side of the mob, her expression remote as she waits for us to reach her. “Your fiancée needs media training.”
“Mildred did fine. Some warning that you’d invited the media would have been nice.”
“The media are always invited. You’re featured in the gossip rags often enough to know this.” His mother gives him an irritated look. “Quite the spectacle at the end.”
He smiles placidly. “Isn’t that what this was about, Mother?”
“Your father won’t be happy.”
“He never is.”
She sighs, her shoulders melting for a moment.
“Why can’t you just make it easy for once?
You’re a Grace. People are interested in your choices, good and bad.
” She finally turns to me and adopts what I expect is supposed to be a smile, but mostly she looks tired.
“I’m sure this is all overwhelming for you. ”
I echo Connor’s smile. “I spend a lot of time in hockey arenas, which are notorious for being overwhelming, I can handle a few nosy photographers.”
Her expression softens for a moment, but then her phone chimes and she rolls her shoulders back, her face a mask of arrogant indifference.
“I have a meeting. Everything has been arranged for your walk-through and tasting. Please do make selections so we’re not left guessing.
” She air-kisses my cheeks and does the same to Connor before striding off.
“I apologize for my mother,” Connor mutters.
“She seems stressed more than anything.”
“It’s the effect I have on her. On all of them.”
I skim the back of his hand with my fingers. “I’m sorry they don’t understand you.”
“Come on.” He laces our fingers and guides me to the escalator that will take us to the second-floor event spaces.
Everything about this hotel screams luxury. We pass a conference center and head for the ballroom.
A man dressed in a hotel uniform approaches us, a smile plastered on his slightly panicked face. His name tag reads Henrick. “Mr. Grace, you’re early. I would have met you in the lobby and escorted you up here.”
“I know my way around my family’s hotels.” He inclines his head toward me. “This is my fiancée, Mildred Reformer.”
“Ms. Reformer.” He nods and half-bows.
“It’s just Dred.”
He looks to Connor, as though he’s seeking clarification or permission.
I jump in with an explanation, hoping to break the tension. “It’s a nickname. Mildred is pretty spot on, considering my profession, and Dred makes me feel like less of a nerdy librarian and more like I belong on some secret superhero squad.”
Connor’s face grows ten times more attractive as a half smile tips the right corner of his mouth. I wish the photographers had followed us up here, so he’d have another reason to put his lips on mine again. That is a problem, but I’ll deal with it later.
“Okay, Dred.” Henrick relaxes a little. “Would you like to see the ballroom where your reception will be held?”
“That would be great.”
He leads us down the hall to a set of beautiful white-and-gold double doors. Opening them with a dramatic flourish I sincerely appreciate, he ushers us inside.
“Oh, this is amazing.” It’s fairy-tale beautiful.
Chandeliers dripping crystals hang from the ceiling, and the room is a soft cream with gold accents.
The floor is polished wood, the round tables are draped with cream tablecloths, and an array of napkins and chair covers in a variety of fabrics have been laid out for us.
But it’s the sheer size of the room that has me leaning in to whisper, “This is huge. How many people are coming to this shindig?”
“All of your friends and everyone my parents know,” Connor says.
“And your friends,” I add.
“I don’t have many of those, as I’m sure you’ve come to realize.”
“What about the guys on the team?” I know from Lexi that he’s closest to Kellan Ryker and Quinn Romero, and that he’s stayed tight with some of his other Hockey Academy connections.
“They’re teammates. That’s different.”
“What about Kodiak Bowman?” Kodiak and his wife attended Tristan and Rix’s wedding this past summer.
Connor makes a noise but doesn’t disagree.
I hug his arm and tip my chin up. He bends to give me his ear again. “I think you’re so used to being the scapegoat that you’ve forgotten you can be something else.”
His expression turns wry. “What are you, an inspirational calendar?”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, fuck you.”
His grin turns lascivious. “As I’ve mentioned, I’m happy to write that into our agreement anytime.”
Henrick clears his throat.
I drop Connor’s arm and put a few inches of space between us.
Henrick’s face has turned red. “Your private tasting session is through here.” He motions to a set of doors.
We follow him into a small room where a table has been set for two. Low lighting and flickering candles give it a romantic air. Connor steps up before the waitstaff can and tucks my chair in, then takes his own.
Two servers put our napkins in our laps and pour us water, then offer us a selection of handcrafted cocktails.
I opt for a lavender-rose gimlet, and Connor declines, noting that he’s the driver.
The servers bring out the first course, which is a decadent lobster bisque, drizzled with lemon butter and garnished with tarragon.
Next is fresh pear and walnut salad on a bed of baby greens, sprinkled with gorgonzola cheese, including a vegan option for those who don’t consume dairy.
Every course looks like art and tastes divine.
Connor samples each item wearing the same intense expression. It’s hot, but also, it defeats the purpose of this adventure.
When we have a moment to ourselves, I lean forward. “Isn’t this supposed to be fun?”
He frowns. “I’m sorry?”
I motion to the crab-stuffed mushroom caps. “This is probably the best food I’ve ever tasted, and you’re over there looking like you’re being graded on your table manners.”
His jaw tenses, and his gaze shifts to the side.
My smile fades, and I sit up straighter. “Oh my gosh, were you actually graded on your table manners?”
Last year when we spent Christmas Eve with Roman, eating Thai takeout, I was entirely too fascinated by his impeccable table manners.
Especially when I was used to Flip and the way he protects his food like someone’s going to steal it before he can finish.
Connor is meticulous to the point of being rigid.
But maybe it’s not because he wants to be. Maybe that’s how he has to be.
“My father kept a wooden spoon on the table,” he admits.
I glance at his elegant hands, his knuckles scarred in places. I assumed hockey was the culprit, but maybe I’m wrong. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine.” He forces a smile. “Good table manners were an expectation in my house, and I always had to learn everything the hard way.”
“It’s not fine, Connor.” I cover his hand with mine as a long-buried memory surfaces, and for some reason, I feel compelled to share it with him.
Maybe so he doesn’t feel alone? “One of the foster homes I stayed in briefly was very…strict. Especially with portion control. It was…tough.” We were always hungry.
It made us feral. Unruly. Punishable. “On my first day, one of the boys tried to sneak an extra roll, and the foster dad hit him so hard the wooden spoon and the boy’s hand broke. ”
His name was Wyatt. He’d been eight at the time, and I’d been seven. By then the number of foster homes I’d been to was nearing double digits.
Connor’s fingers close around mine, voice low and gritty. “How long were you there?”
“I made sure I was enough of a problem that they got rid of me almost right away.” Bad behavior could be effective, but it often came with painful consequences.
Sometimes they were worth it, but not always.
By the time I was eight, I’d learned that saying the right thing in front of the right person could be just as good a way to escape the bad stuff.
“I did the same,” he whispers. “But they never really got rid of me.”
“Lucky for me, I guess.” Our worlds are so different, but now I know it’s true—underneath we’re the same.
Broken. Discarded by the people who were supposed to love us the most. But Connor has been turned into a villain, and I became a savior.
Maybe even now I’m becoming his. Would it be so bad to have my own villain? To be a soft place for him to land?
“More for me, I think.”
I shake my head. “Always so content to be the bad guy.”
“I’m good at it.”
“You’re not the only one.” I move my chair so I’m beside him, shove all my silverware into a pile, and prop my elbows on the table.
He laughs, and it’s a beautiful sound.
The server brings the next course, and his eyes go wide at the mess the table has become. He steps in to fix the silverware.
Connor raises a hand. “Leave it, please. My fiancée is being a menace.” He winks at me, and I grin back.
“Of course, Mr. Grace.” He removes our plates and sets something artful and unidentifiable in front of us. I miss part of the explanation, too busy trying to comprehend what’s in front of me.
I wait until the server disappears before I say anything. “This looks like pretty cat food.”
Connor just about falls out of his chair, he’s laughing so hard.
I vow immediately to try my hardest to put a smile on his usually serious face. I defend my position. “It really does seem like something a cat would happily consume.”
He dabs at his eyes with his napkin, still grinning. “Please say that in front of my mother.”
“Uh, never. But you can’t tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re not wrong about the appearance.”
“Are you going to explain this, or do I have to look it up?”
“It’s steak tartare.”