Chapter Twelve
The Gala
Crew
I check my reflection in the hallway mirror. The tux fits perfectly, my hair is styled neatly, and my cufflinks—the only pair I own—are secured.
I look like a guy who has his shit together.
Funny how appearances work.
“Almost ready!” Emmie calls from her room. “Two minutes!”
“Take your time.” I have no idea why I said that. I never say that. I have a schedule, and two minutes late means we’ll hit traffic on 75 and arrive at 7:04 instead of 7:00, which means—
Her door opens.
And my brain stops working.
She’s wearing green. Deep emerald green that makes her eyes look like honey in sunlight.
The dress hugs her curves like it was made for her, silk sliding over her hips, a slit up one side revealing a dangerous amount of leg.
Her hair is down, falling in soft waves over her bare shoulders, and there’s something sparkly at her ears that catches the light when she moves.
She’s not merely pretty tonight.
She’s outright devastating.
“Well?” She does a little spin, and I watch the fabric move with her, clinging in all the right places. “Does it work? Sadie let me borrow it, and I wasn’t sure if it was too much, but she said—”
“It works.” My voice comes out rough. I clear my throat. “You look… good.”
“Good?” She raises an eyebrow. “I squeezed into shapewear and glued my boobs into this dress for good?”
“You look beautiful.” The word slips out before I can stop it. “Really beautiful.”
Her cheeks flush pink, and she drops her gaze, suddenly shy. “Thanks. You, um… you clean up nice too.”
I’m staring. I know I’m staring. I can’t stop.
“Oh, wait.” She turns, sweeping her hair over one shoulder. “Can you help me with this? The clasp is being difficult.”
There’s a delicate gold chain around her neck, the clasp hanging open at her nape. She’s holding the two ends together, waiting.
I step closer.
My fingers brush the back of her neck as I take the clasp from her, and she shivers. Just slightly. Just enough for me to notice.
The clasp is tiny and fiddly. My hands aren’t made for delicate work—they’re made for tactical gear and trigger guards—but I manage to hook it closed on the second try.
“There.”
She turns to face me, and we’re close now. Close enough that I can smell her perfume—something warm and vanilla—and see the gold flecks in her eyes. It looks like she has that uh, mascara stuff on. Maybe eyeliner too. Emmie’s always pretty, but tonight she looks gorgeous.
“Thank you,” she says softly.
“You’re welcome.”
Neither of us moves.
Her gaze drops to my mouth for just a second, and heat flares in my chest. I could kiss her right now. I could close the distance between us and find out if she tastes as sweet as she smells.
But this is fake. All of it. And kissing her would cross a line I’m not sure I can come back from.
“We should go,” I say, stepping back. “Traffic.”
“Right.” She blinks, as if waking up from something. “Traffic. Yes.”
I grab my keys, and we head for the door.
This is going to be a long night.
* * *
The gala is at the Gaylord Hotel, adorned with crystal chandeliers, marble floors, and people in expensive clothes pretending to be comfortable. I hate these events—the noise, the small talk, the constant performance of being someone I’m not.
But tonight, I have Emmie.
She slips her hand into mine as we walk through the entrance, and the touch grounds me in a way I didn’t expect. Her fingers are warm, her grip steady, and when I glance down at her, she gives me a small smile.
“You’ve got this,” she murmurs. “Just follow my lead.”
I don’t know how to follow anyone’s lead, but for her, I’m willing to try.
The ballroom is packed with agents and their spouses, along with various city officials and donors I vaguely recognize. A string quartet plays in the corner. Waiters circulate with champagne and tiny food that means I’ll probably still be hungry when this is over.
“Ooh, crab cakes.” Emmie snags two from a passing tray and hands me one. “Try this.”
“I don’t usually—”
“Try it.”
I try it. It’s actually good.
“See?” She grins. “I’m expanding your horizons.”
I lift one eyebrow. “You’re force-feeding me appetizers.”
“Same thing.”
We make our way through the crowd, and I realize something strange is happening.
With Emmie beside me, the usual pressure isn’t there.
She fills the silences I usually dread, asking people about themselves, laughing at their jokes, making small talk look effortless.
All I have to do is stand there, nod occasionally, and try not to look like I want to be anywhere else.
It’s… easy.
Too easy.
“Jensen!” A hand claps my shoulder, and I turn to find my boss, Daniels standing there with his wife, Margaret. He’s in a classic black tux, and she’s in something blue and elegant, both beaming at us as if we just announced our engagement.
“Sir.” I shake his hand. “Mrs. Daniels.”
“Please, call me Margaret.” She’s already looking past me to Emmie, curiosity bright in her eyes. “And you must be the girlfriend we’ve heard so much about.”
Heard so much about? That’s a stretch.
“That’s me.” Emmie extends her hand with that warm, open smile that makes everyone trust her instantly. “Emmie Marshall. It’s so nice to finally meet you both.”
“Emmie’s a cookbook author,” I offer, thinking that seems like something a boyfriend would say.
Margaret’s face lights up. “A cookbook author? How wonderful! I’ve been trying to get Richard to eat better for years. What kind of recipes do you write?”
And just like that, they’re off.
Emmie talks about her books—comfort food, cooking for people you love, making healthy eating feel indulgent instead of punishing.
Margaret asks a dozen questions, genuinely interested.
My boss listens with an amused expression, occasionally interjecting to complain about his wife’s attempts to limit his red meat intake.
“She makes this lemon chicken,” I hear myself say. “It’s, uh… really good.”
Everyone turns to look at me.
Emmie’s grinning when she meets my eyes, and Daniels and Margaret exchange a look—the kind married couples give each other when they’re communicating without words.
“You two are adorable,” Margaret declares. “How long have you been together?”
“A few months,” Emmie says smoothly. “We were roommates first, actually. He put out an ad, and I answered it, and…” She shrugs, leaning into me. “Here we are.”
“Best decision I ever made,” I say, surprised to realize I mean it.
Emmie’s hand tightens around mine.
“Well, I think this calls for a celebration,” Margaret announces. “You two should come to dinner next weekend. I’ll make my famous pot roast, and Emmie can give me cooking tips.”
“Oh, we couldn’t impose—”
“Nonsense. I insist.”
Emmie glances at me, a question in her eyes. We didn’t plan for this. We didn’t anticipate the fake relationship extending beyond tonight, beyond the gala, into actual social obligations with my boss and his wife.
But she’s already smiling, already nodding, already saying, “Actually, why don’t you come to our place? I’ll cook. I insist.”
Margaret looks delighted. “Richard, did you hear that? A home-cooked meal from a professional cookbook author.”
“I heard.” Daniels is watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. “Sounds like we’ve got plans.”
The conversation continues—schedules compared, dates proposed, wine preferences discussed—but I’m stuck on two words.
Our place.
She said “our place” like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like we’re actually building something together instead of playing pretend.
The rest of the evening blurs together. More small talk, more appetizers, more of Emmie’s hand in mine.
She gets me to try scallops wrapped in bacon and some kind of tuna thing on a cracker.
I get her a drink from the bar—her complicated margarita order, which I’ve memorized now—and she looks at me like I just handed her diamonds.
“You remembered,” she says.
“I told you. Good memory.”
“For drink orders?”
“For things that matter.”
She goes quiet, something shifting in her expression. Before I can figure out what it means, Daniels appears at my elbow.
“Jensen. A word?”
I follow him to a quieter corner of the ballroom, leaving Emmie chatting with Margaret about the differences between French and Italian cooking techniques.
He turns to face me, hands in his pockets. “I have to admit, I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Sir?”
“The girlfriend. The relationship.” He shakes his head slowly. “I’ve known you for six years, Jensen. You’ve always been closed off. Professional to a fault. I figured you’d die alone in that apartment with that cat you complain about.”
“Murphy’s not technically my cat.”
“My point is—” He pauses, glancing across the room at Emmie, who is laughing at something Margaret said. “She’s good for you. I can see it. You’re different tonight. Lighter.”
I don’t know how to respond.
I find Emmie in the crowd, watching her gesture animatedly while Margaret hangs on every word. The emerald dress catches the light. Her smile is bright, genuine, lighting up her whole face.
She’s not faking anything. That’s just who she is—warm, open, and effortlessly charming. She walked into a room full of strangers and made them love her in under an hour.
She walked into my life and did the same.
I’m heading back to Emmie when a hand claps my shoulder.
“Well, well, well.”
Foster. Of course.
He’s in a suit, drink in hand, grinning like Christmas came early. His eyes cut past me to where Emmie’s chatting with Margaret.
“Damn, dude,” he says. “The dress is… wow.”
“Foster.”
“I’m just observing. Objectively.” He takes a sip of his drink, still staring. “You know, when she showed up at happy hour, I thought okay, she’s cute. But this?” He gestures vaguely in her direction. “This is a whole different level.”
I follow his gaze—the emerald silk, the curve of her waist, the way her whole face lights up when she laughs. He’s not wrong. She’s stunning tonight. I’ve known that since she walked out of her bedroom and my brain stopped working.