25. Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Five
Cole
Staff moves around the ballroom in a way that, to anyone else, would seem chaotic and disorganized, but they’re like a play, each knowing what they’re doing and where they’re supposed to be—setting out champagne flutes, adjusting floral arrangements, ensuring every detail meets my standards. And right now, my standards are impossibly high as I oversee the final touches before guests arrive for the gala.
Because I’m pissed.
Not the barely noticeable kind, either. The kind that makes the staff skittish, eyes darting away when I so much as glance in their direction.
“Who approved this arrangement?” I snap, pointing to a too-large floral centerpiece on one of the cocktail tables near the bar.
The young event coordinator stiffens. “I—I did, sir. I thought—”
“It’s blocking the sightline of the bar,” I cut in, voice sharp. “I don’t want people maneuvering around an overgrown shrub just to order a drink. Fix it. ”
She nods frantically, grabbing two other staff members to help as she mutters apologies. I don’t bother acknowledging them. My patience is already stretched thin, and it’s not just because of the decorations.
It’s because of Annie.
More specifically, because I’ve just learned that instead of buying a proper dress for the event—one that was tailored, fitted, and appropriate for an event of this scale—she’d made her own.
I’d made it very clear that she was to pick whatever she wanted, no expense spared. And she… what? Decided a homemade dress was better?
The irritation simmers under my skin, making my already short fuse even shorter. What the hell is it going to look like? Annie is beautiful, sure, but that won’t mean anything if she’s dressed in something amateurish.
This isn’t a casual dinner. This is a gala. A showcase of power and prestige, meant to solidify my connections with investors, entice new ones, build relationships, and secure future business. Everything has to be perfect. And now, I have to present my son at an adults-only event and introduce the nanny in a homemade dress?
And, of course, no one had seen the damn thing yet, so there was no way to prepare for the damage control if it turned out to be a disaster .
The thought makes me snap at another waiter, whose only crime is slightly adjusting a table setting in my peripheral vision. He pales and nods hurriedly before disappearing.
I drag a hand down my face, inhaling deeply, trying to rein in the frustration I have nowhere to put.
“If you keep scaring them off like that,” a familiar voice says from behind me, amused, “there won’t be anyone left to work the party.”
I turn on my heel, already prepared to give her a piece of my mind about the dress—about how she should’ve just picked something instead of making my life more complicated—when I see her.
And everything in me stills.
Annie stands before me like something out of a dream, and for the first time in my life, I struggle to find words.
Her golden hair is swept into elegant Old Hollywood waves, framing her face in a way that makes her look ethereal. Her makeup is subtle but flawless—her skin glowing, her lips lush, her blue eyes enhanced by the color of her dress.
And her dress.
Not sloppy. Not amateurish.
A masterpiece.
The fabric is a seamless blend of soft blues and nude tones, crafted so meticulously that it looks like it was made for royalty. The bodice sits delicately off her shoulders, drawing my attention to the graceful line of her collarbone—something I’d never considered sexy before, but suddenly, I can’t stop staring.
The neckline plunges down the center of her chest, revealing teasing glimpses of the tops and sides of her breasts, but somehow, doesn’t look immodest.
Nude mesh lines the lace bodice, giving the illusion of exposed skin without actually revealing anything. The skirt flows effortlessly to the floor, nearly sheer—maybe if I squinted and wished hard enough.
She’s grace. Elegance. Angelic.
And she made this herself.
My reprimand dies on my lips. My irritation evaporates.
I have to fight to keep my jaw from dropping.
It takes a full moment for me to realize that Robbie is standing beside her, dressed in a miniature tuxedo that mirrors mine.
His dark hair is combed neatly, and he’s beaming up at me, completely unaware of the tension radiating off me as I stare at Annie like I’ve never seen her before.
Annie shifts under my gaze, her fingers grazing the side of her dress in a nervous tick. The slight blush dusting her cheeks only makes her look more breathtaking.
“H-How is it?” she asks, nearly whispering in her uncertainty.
I clear my throat, forcing myself to speak. “You look…” I trail off, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. I swallow and try again. “You look incredible.”
Her blush deepens, and she dips her gaze, tucking a loose wave behind her ear. “Thank you.”
She’s sweet when she blushes. I don’t think I’ve ever found something as distracting as watching the pink creep across her skin.
I glance down at Robbie, who is still grinning at me expectantly. “And you,” I say, crouching slightly. “You clean up nice, buddy.”
He giggles. “Annie said I look just like you!”
I smirk. “She’s right. You’re just missing the scowl.”
Robbie laughs harder, and Annie bites back a smile.
I straighten, my eyes locking onto Annie’s again. “You made this?”
She nods, the nervousness flickering in her expression. “Yeah. I told you I had experience, but… I… It’s good enough, right?”
Good enough?
It’s better than anything I could’ve bought her.
I should’ve known. Evelyn told me she was talented. But I hadn’t expected this. I hadn’t expected her to look like she belonged in the pages of a high-end fashion magazine .
I should tell her all of that. I should tell her that she blew my expectations out of the water. But before I can, Ellis appears at my side, ever composed.
“The first of your guests have arrived, Mr. Wagner.”
I exhale, blinking as I snap back to the reality of the event. Right. The gala. The reason she’s dressed like this in the first place.
I nod at Ellis before glancing at Annie one more time. “We’ll talk later.”
Something flickers in her expression, but she only nods. “Of course.”
I turn toward the entrance, adjusting the cuffs of my tux, trying to shift my focus back to business. But as I step forward to greet my guests, there’s only one thought circling in my mind.
Annie Fox is full of surprises.
***
Conversation weaves through the ballroom, punctuated by the occasional clinking of glasses and laughter. The event is in full swing, investors and business partners mingling with ease, thanks to the carefully curated atmosphere—and the free-flowing champagne, no doubt.
Everything is exactly as it should be—elegant, refined, seamless .
And yet, I can’t focus on a damn thing.
I stand with Phillip Langford and his wife, Abigail, making polite conversation while my eyes keep darting across the room, tracking flashes of blue and gold as Annie moves through the crowd. It’s not intentional—at least, that’s what I tell myself. But ever since I laid eyes on her in that damn dress, my brain refuses to cooperate.
“You’ve outdone yourself this year, Cole,” Philip says, swirling the bourbon in his glass.
He’s been an acquaintance for years, an old-money investor with a keen business mind and a taste for the finer things in life. “It seems your guest list gets more impressive every year.”
“Necessary evil,” I reply, sipping my own drink. “Keeps the right people happy.”
Abigail, a statuesque woman with a sharp eye for fashion and a sharper tongue, smiles as she glances around.
“Well, I’d say everyone is quite happy.” She gestures toward a small group laughing by the bar. “Though I must say, I was shocked to see you with such a radiant companion earlier.” Her gaze flicks back to me, curious. “Not your usual type.”
Philip chuckles, clearly amused. “Yes, the young woman in blue—who is she?”
Before I can answer, I see her approaching .
Annie.
She moves effortlessly through the crowd, her dress flowing around her with each step, looking every bit as poised and elegant as any socialite in the room.
But there’s something different about her—something real. A warmth that the other guests don’t quite have. And completely unaware that, wherever she goes, all eyes—especially mine—are on her.
She stops beside me, offering me a polite smile before glancing at Philip and Abigail.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” she says, her voice light.
“Not at all,” Philip assures her. “We were just asking Cole about you.”
“Oh?” She raises a brow at me before turning her attention back to them. “I hope he said good things.”
Abigail laughs. “He was about to. But I’d much rather hear it from you. How exactly does one go from working at Silver Screen Studios to being a nanny?”
Of course, everyone knows already.
Annie’s expression lights up, and I swear the entire damn room feels a little warmer.
“Oh, it’s a story,” she says, grinning. “And probably one of the weirdest career changes you’ve ever heard.”
Philip chuckles. “Now I have to know.”
“Well, picture this,” Annie begins, gesturing dramatically. “I was working as a receptionist at Silver Screen Studios, answering phones, directing calls, dodging the occasional crazy fan trying to sneak onto the lot—just normal Hollywood things.”
Philip and Abigail both laugh, fully engaged, and I find myself watching Annie more than listening to the words.
She has that effect.
It’s in the way she talks, the way she tells a story—not just with her words but with her hands, her expressions, the little pauses she takes for effect. She’s entertaining in a way that feels natural, not forced.
I never had that skill. Never needed it. My conversations tended to revolve around business, numbers, things I could control. Small talk and social charm? Never my strengths.
But Annie? She makes it look effortless.
“So then,” Annie continues, “I’m packing up to go home one day, and before I can take off, who’s striding across the lobby but Mr. Wagner here. And wouldn’t you know? He’s heading right for me! Long story short? All of Robbie’s caretakers were busy that night, and suddenly, I found myself in this whole new life.”
I appreciate that she doesn’t mention the way Robbie’s previous nanny quit suddenly, leaving me high and dry. Despite the air of innocence floating around her, she clearly knows her audience… and how much they love gossip .
Abigail gasps. “That’s incredible.”
“More like incredibly chaotic,” Annie jokes. “But in the best possible way.”
Philip grins. “That’s quite the story. And tell me, do you enjoy being a nanny more than dodging Hollywood executives?”
Annie laughs. “Let’s just say I prefer planning pool parties to mollifying directors.”
They laugh again, and I realize—selfishly—that I’m relieved she’s here.
I’ve been attending events and throwing these parties alone for years, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy them. I know how to network, how to schmooze when necessary, but personal socialization isn’t my strong suit.
Robin had always balanced me out in these situations. And now, without her, I’d simply resigned myself to just getting through the night.
It’s not like I’ve never taken a date to an event before, but it isn’t the same. A date is just someone else you have to entertain. It’s why my attempts at dating tended to fizzle outside of the bedroom.
But Annie?
She makes it easier.
She makes everything easier .
“You know,” Abigail says, tilting her head as she studies Annie, “I’ve been admiring your dress all night. Who’s the designer? I have an event coming up next month, and I haven’t been satisfied with anything I’ve seen so far.”
Annie’s cheeks turn pink, and I know what’s coming before she says it.
“Oh—um—”
“Annie made it herself,” I say smoothly. “She’s a woman of many talents, which I’ve only discovered recently myself.”
Abigail’s eyes widen. “You made this?”
Annie tugs at the skirt of her dress, clearly flustered. “Yeah, I… designed it—and made it—myself.”
Abigail looks at her like she’s just announced she built the mansion with her bare hands. “That is incredible. Truly. Do you have formal training? You’re so young!”
Annie waves a hand, as if dismissing the compliment. “I was in fashion school before this whole nanny thing happened.”
“I’m shocked a designer hasn’t snatched you up,” Abigail says, clearly in awe.
“Oh well.” Annie laughs softly, clearly not used to the praise and attention. “I interned with Bianchi Atelier for a while.”
Abigail’s jaw nearly drops. “Bianchi Atelier? ”
Even I recognize that name. I’m not very into fashion as a hobby, but in my line of work, it’s necessary to know what’s what.
Philip whistles under his breath. “Now, that’s impressive.”
Annie shifts, looking bashful. “It was just an internship.”
“An internship at one of the most exclusive fashion houses in the world,” Abigail says, eyes still wide. “You’re ridiculously talented. Why on earth were you working as a receptionist at Silver Screen?”
It’s a good question.
One I suddenly want the answer to.
Annie shrugs. “Well, most internships in this field are for reputation and opportunity… not pay.” She laughs softly again. “So I put everything on hold for a while to work, and that’s how I landed at Silver Screen.”
I frown slightly. I hadn’t known that.
Abigail shakes her head in disbelief. “Well, let me just say—I would kill for a dress like this.”
Annie laughs. “Well, hopefully, it doesn’t come to that.”
Abigail chuckles, shaking her head. “I’m serious. If you ever decide to go back into fashion, you’ve got a client in me.”
Annie’s blush deepens, and she murmurs a thank you.
Annie clears her throat, her cheeks still pink from Abigail’s praise, and glances around before flashing a bright, slightly mischievous smile. “So,” she says, shifting the conversation, “has anyone tried the hors d’oeuvres yet?”
Philip tilts his head. “Can’t say I have. Anything good?”
“Oh, more than good,” Annie says, her eyes lighting up in the same way they did when she told her story earlier. “There’s this one—I don’t know what it’s called—but it’s got this tiny little toast with whipped something on top, and I swear, I’ve probably eaten ten of them tonight.”
Abigail laughs. “That good?”
Annie nods solemnly. “Dangerously good. I’ve been sneaking them off trays all night like some kind of hors d’oeuvres thief.”
Philip chuckles, shaking his head. “Well, now I have to try them.”
“Oh, you absolutely do.” Annie grins. “If you’re fast enough, that is. I’ve been hoarding them.”
Abigail smirks. “Guess we better hurry before you eat them all, then.”
Philip places a hand on his wife’s back, already leading her away. “Pleasure meeting you, Annie. I’ll be sure to have a toast in your honor if these hors d’oeuvres live up to the hype.”
Annie waves after them, her laughter soft and easy.
I watch them go, my drink forgotten in my hand.
She’s good. Really good.
She’d taken a conversation that could have become uncomfortable—Abigail clearly wanting to pry more into why she wasn’t pursuing fashion—and turned it into something lighthearted and fun.
She’d effortlessly steered the attention away from herself, and now Philip and Abigail were off on a mission instead of lingering with more questions.
She’s sharp. She’s quick.
And I find myself wondering, yet again, what the hell she was doing answering phones at Silver Screen.
Before I can say anything, she turns back to me, her expression shifting slightly, growing softer.
“Actually, I came over to tell you I’m taking Robbie up for the night,” she says. “If you wanted to say goodnight before we went up?”
I blink, momentarily thrown off.
I’d been so caught up in watching her—watching how easily she fit in, how effortlessly she handled herself—that I’d nearly forgotten about Robbie.
“I’ll walk you both up,” I say without thinking.
Annie hesitates, surprised, before nodding. “Okay. ”
I set my drink down and follow her as she weaves through the crowd, my mind still turning over everything I’d just learned.
Annie had talent. Real talent.
And all this time, she’d been working as a receptionist.
And now a nanny.
I glance at her as we approach Robbie, who’s curled up in a chair, nearly asleep.
What a waste.
Not that I think taking care of my son is a waste, but to think that she had this passion in her, and she’d set it aside because of money—something I have way too much of myself.
This woman should be designing for Bianchi.
And for some reason, that thought unsettles me more than it should.