Chapter 21 Collette
COLLETTE
The charity gala is the kind of event that makes you feel underdressed even when you’re not.
The ballroom is dripping in crystal chandeliers and white linen, and the air is filled with the scent of wealth that comes from expensive cologne, fresh flowers, and champagne that costs more per glass than most people’s weekly groceries.
It benefits youth hockey programs across the city, getting kids on the ice who couldn’t otherwise afford it, which is the only reason I’m not complaining about being here on a Friday night in heels that are already cutting into my feet.
Renee wanted full coverage tonight, red carpet arrivals, the dinner, the bachelor auction, the dancing, all of it.
So, the girls and I are in work mode, cameras charged, dressed in outfits that walk the line between professional and glamorous because you can’t film a gala in jeans.
I’m in a fitted black dress that Zara talked me into during a shopping expedition one lunch hour and heels that I’m going to regret by ten o’clock.
Marlowe has the main camera. Billie is on the mini mic.
Zara is coordinating with the event team.
And I’m running the candids with my phone.
The bigger challenge tonight wasn’t the event, it was getting Jo here.
My sister wanted to stay home in her sweats and watch TV because Jo’s idea of a perfect Friday night involves zero people and maximum solitude.
She’s been working with the team for weeks now, and is brilliant at her job, but socializing outside of work hours is not her thing.
I showed up at her bedroom door an hour ago with a black dress and a look that said, ‘This is not negotiable.’ And now she’s here, in the black dress that clings to every curve she pretends she doesn’t have, her dark hair down in soft waves, and gold earrings catching the light.
She looks stunning. She also looks like she wants to murder me, which is fair.
“I hate you for this,” she mutters as we walk into the ballroom.
“You look incredible, now shut up and drink your champagne.”
The red carpet is controlled chaos. Players arrive in suits, some with dates, some without, all of them looking like they were built in a factory specifically to wear formalwear.
I catch the arrivals on camera, quick hits for the fans.
Pierre and Issy arrive looking like they should be on the cover of a magazine.
Felix and Harper are right behind them, Harper in something designer that makes every woman in the room quietly hate her.
Emmett walks in with Sully, both in dark suits, Emmett looking like he’d rather be having dental surgery.
Sully looks like he’s about to charm the entire ballroom, which he probably will.
Bouch arrives in a red velvet tuxedo, it’s a bold choice.
Nelly is in something very European with sparkles on his tuxedo, which somehow works.
Next, Evan walks in looking like a hitman at a society party, wearing an all-black tuxedo, zero expression, and I swear two women physically step back when he passes.
Then Fish walks in, and I forget I’m holding my phone and supposed to be getting scenes of the guys arriving.
He’s in a tuxedo. A tuxedo. The kind that fits like it was sewn onto his body, with a black bow tie and his hair pushed back, making him look like he just stepped off the cover of a magazine that I would buy and hide under my bed.
He spots me as he walks the red carpet and gives me that grin.
The real one. Not the camera grin, not the charming-the-public grin.
Mine. The one that’s slightly crooked and makes something behind my ribs flip over.
Friends. You are friends. I raise my phone and catch him walking in.
He plays to it, adjusts his bow tie, and does a little turn.
The fans are going to lose their minds. I lower the phone, and he winks at me as he passes, and I hate that it works.
I hate that a wink from this man can undo three months of carefully constructed emotional boundaries.
“Are you blushing?” Zara says beside me.
“It was the champagne I had earlier,” I tell her, but she doesn’t look convinced.
Dinner is a three-course affair at round tables with gold centerpieces and candles that make everyone look like they’re in a perfume commercial.
I’m seated near the back with the girls because we’re working, not socializing, but I have a clear view of the room.
Jo is at a table with our brothers. I watch her scan the room when she thinks nobody is looking, and I notice her eyes land on Emmett’s table more than once. Interesting.
Fish is across the room with Bouch, Nelly, Evan, and Sully.
The brunette who’s been circling him since cocktail hour is at the next table, and she keeps turning in her chair to talk to him.
She’s gorgeous, tall, with dark hair, and red lips, the kind of woman who walks into a room and every head turns.
She’s touching his arm, and he’s laughing at something she said.
I don’t care. He’s single as am I. I force myself to eat my salmon and focus on the content plan for the rest of the night.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment you’ve been waiting for!” The MC’s voice booms through the speakers. “Our bachelor auction!”
The room erupts. This is the biggest fundraiser of the night.
The players get auctioned off for charity, the winner gets a dance, signed merch, VIP tickets, suite passes, and a private training session.
It’s all in good fun and raises an obscene amount of money for a great cause.
The guys are herded onto the stage, and I have to say, seeing them all lined up in tuxedos and suits looking like a very expensive buffet is something to behold.
Billie has the camera on the stage, and I’m supposed to be getting crowd reactions, but I can’t stop watching.
Sully goes first, he plays to the crowd, unbuttons his jacket, and does a slow turn that has women screaming. The bidding climbs fast, reaching thirty thousand to a redhead in the front row who looks like she’s about to eat him alive.
“That woman is terrifying,” Marlowe whispers.
“Sully can handle himself,” I tell her, but I’m not sure I believe it.
Pierre goes next, fifty thousand. Issy doesn’t bid because she doesn’t need to, she already owns him. The woman who wins looks thrilled. Issy looks unbothered, which is power.
Felix goes for forty. Harper watches with an amused smile, completely secure. That’s what trust looks like.
Bouch goes for thirty, charming the crowd in French.
Nelly goes for thirty-five, looking mortified the entire time, which somehow makes the bidding go higher.
Evan stands on stage, arms crossed, jaw set, and says absolutely nothing, which drives the crowd insane.
He goes for forty-five to a woman who looks like she might actually faint.
Then Fish.
“And next up, number twenty-two, Justin Crawford!”
He walks to the center of the stage, and the room gets loud.
Really loud. He grins, that grin, and does this thing where he adjusts his bow tie and tilts his head, and every woman in the building collectively loses her mind.
He’s eating it up. Of course he is. This is his element, being wanted, being the center of attention, being adored.
The bidding starts at five thousand and climbs fast, ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty. I watch the numbers rise and tell myself the tightness in my chest is from the underwire in this dress, forty, forty-five.
“Fifty-five thousand!” A voice rings out from the front row.
It’s the brunette, the one who’s been touching his arm all night.
She stands tall, all long legs, red lips, and a confidence that comes from never being told no.
Fish looks at her and smiles. The room cheers and the MC slams the gavel, and it’s done.
Fifty-five thousand dollars for a dance with my best friend.
Suddenly, my stomach doesn’t feel so good, must have been a dodgy bit of salmon.
Emmett goes last and the bidding is insane.
A woman in a red dress, with dark hair, curves, all sharp edges, and predatory energy, bids one hundred thousand dollars.
The room gasps. Emmett looks like he wants the stage to swallow him whole.
I glance at Jo, she’s watching from her table, champagne in hand, and the expression on her face is one I recognize because I just felt it myself.
The dancing starts, and I work the room, getting candid shots and capturing moments.
I film Sully waltzing with the redhead. I film Bouch trying to teach his bidder a hockey celebration dance.
I film Pierre pulling Issy onto the dance floor even though she didn’t bid on him because Pierre doesn’t care about rules when it comes to that woman.
Then I see Fish.
He’s on the dance floor with the brunette.
She’s pressed against him, her arms around his neck, her face close to his ear, whispering something.
His hand is on her waist, polite, not low, but still.
His hand is on her waist. A hand that was on my waist. A hand that was on my throat.
A hand that ran its thumb across my lips in a corridor.
Stop!
I watch them dance, and I feel something ugly and hot rise through my chest. She laughs at whatever he says and tilts her head back, and he looks down at her.
I have to turn away because if I watch one more second, I’m going to do something unprofessional.
You have no right to feel this way. He’s not yours.
I throw myself into work, more candids, more crowd shots. I interview a couple of the donors and get some quotes about the charity. I’m professional, focused, and absolutely not tracking Fish’s location across the ballroom every thirty seconds.
Jo appears beside me, looking flushed. “I need air.”
“You okay?”
“Fine. Just hot in here.” She disappears toward one of the terrace doors.
I watch her go, and then I watch Emmett excuse himself from his table a minute later and head in the same direction. Interesting.
The evening wears on, more champagne, more dancing, and more of the brunette hanging off Fish like she bought him at a store and not a charity auction.
I’ve lost sight of him over the last twenty minutes, which is fine because I’m working and don’t need to know his whereabouts all the time.
Except you do. “I’m going to do one more loop for candids, and then I think we’re good,” I tell Marlowe.
“Sounds good,” she says.
I weave through the ballroom toward the far side, where there’s a smaller, second terrace that wraps around the corner of the building.
It’s quieter here, away from the main event, with the music muffled by the glass doors.
A few people are smoking near the railing.
I keep moving, rounding the corner toward the part of the terrace that’s tucked away, darker, more private.
And that’s when I see them.
The brunette has Fish pressed up against the wall of the terrace, her hands on his lapels, her mouth on his.
The world tilts, everything goes sharp and bright and wrong.
My chest caves in, the champagne turns to acid in my stomach, and I can’t breathe.
I can’t fucking breathe. I take a step backward, my heel catching on the stone, and I press my hand against the wall to steady myself.
You have no right to feel this. You told him you were just friends. You drew the line. You made the rules.
I must make a sound which stops the kiss.
Fish’s blue eyes land on mine, and a curse falls from his lips.
The brunette turns around, and a satisfied smirk falls across her red lips.
She’s excited that she’s won the prize. I don’t stay, I turn around and walk back inside on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.
I walk past Marlowe, who calls my name. I walk past Pierre, who’s laughing with Issy.
I walk past the ballroom, the chandeliers, the music, and the hundred-thousand-dollar woman in the red dress, and the fifty-five-thousand-dollar brunette’s empty chair.
Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry. Not here. Not over him.
I push through the front doors, the cold night air hitting me like a wall.
I suck it in, big gulps, trying to steady myself.
The street is busy, taxis crawling past, the glow of the city reflecting off everything.
I need to get out of here. I need to go home and get out of this dress and never think about Justin Crawford’s mouth on another woman’s lips ever again.
I step toward the curb and raise my hand for a taxi.