Chapter 8
LARK
The Callahan Spirits headquarters is in Bellevue, tucked into one of those polished neighborhoods where even the trees look expensive and intentional.
It’s a modern glass building that somehow manages to be thirty floors tall without being obnoxious about it, all clean lines and subtle logos etched into the glass. Very understated wealth.
I arrive at the designated entrance, where a small fleet of luxury cars is queued up at the valet station.
Men in crisp black uniforms efficiently whisk away Bentleys and Mercedes like they’re handling ordinary sedans.
I hesitate for a moment, suddenly very aware of my Honda with its duct-taped side mirror sitting in this line of vehicles that probably cost more than my entire apartment building.
Should I have arranged for a rideshare instead? Too late now. I’m committed.
As I pull up to the valet stand, a young man in a perfectly tailored uniform opens my door with the same courteous professional smile he probably gave to the Maserati that just pulled away ahead of me.
“Welcome to Callahan Spirits, miss,” he says smoothly, handing me a ticket. “The event is on the top floor. The elevators are just inside and to your left.”
“Thank you,” I reply, trying desperately to act like I do this every single day. I watch as he slides into the driver’s seat and carefully drives my car away, probably to some hidden corner of the garage reserved for vehicles that don’t quite qualify as luxury.
I smooth down my dress with slightly damp palms. It’s black, floor-length with a slit up the left side that shows leg when I walk.
The neckline dips low enough to show off some cleavage, which was the whole point when I bought it last year, and the fabric is some kind of silky material that moves well.
But I’m about to walk into a room full of people who probably think Prada is casual Friday wear. At least I splurged on the good mascara tonight, my eyeliner cooperated, and the red lipstick I’m wearing makes me feel like I can fake confidence for an evening.
Okay. Deep breaths. This is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.
Though I’ll admit the fake dating performances we’ve been doing over the past two weeks at the coffee shop and around Dark River have felt a hell of a lot easier than this mega-fancy corporate event in Seattle with actual stakes.
Two hours, I tell myself firmly. Make it through two hours of smiling and small talk and then find a polite excuse to leave.
Jack can’t possibly expect me to stay this entire night.
I follow the discreet signage through the gleaming lobby to a private elevator bank, where a woman with an iPad is checking guests against a list. She’s wearing a professional headset and her posture screams efficiency and organization.
When I give my name, her expression brightens immediately. “Ms. Reyes, welcome. Mr. Midnight mentioned you’d be arriving separately. Please, this way.”
I’m escorted into an elevator that looks more luxurious than most hotel rooms I’ve stayed in—polished brass accents catching the light, a backlit panel of what appears to be actual marble.
I pull out my phone as the elevator glides upward.
Me: I’m here, in the elevator, heading up.
Jack: Great, making my way to you now.
Thank god. The idea of walking into this event without Jack as a buffer, having to navigate this world alone, isn’t remotely my idea of a good time.
I check my reflection one more time in those flattering mirrors.
I’d straightened my hair so it falls sleek down my back, but I spot a slightly wavy strand that I’d missed. Great. No help for that now.
The elevator opens directly into a stunning atrium that makes me forget to breathe for a second.
The ceiling soars at least twenty feet high, glass and polished steel, with the evening sky visible.
The space is already filled with people in formal wear—women in elegant dresses and men in fancy suits.
Waitstaff in crisp black and white circulate smoothly with silver trays of champagne flutes and delicate hors d’oeuvres that look more like tiny art installations than actual food.
On one side of the massive room, a gleaming Formula One race car is displayed on a slowly rotating platform, dramatic lighting highlighting every aggressive curve of its aerodynamic design. The car looks like it’s ready to launch off the platform at any second.
Nearby, an impressive motorcycle sits on its own illuminated display, chrome and leather, and a third platform showcases what looks like maybe a rally car covered in sponsor decals, all three vehicles bearing the Callahan Spirits logo prominently.
A small crowd is gathered around them, taking photos and pointing at various features, their animated conversation carrying across the space.
I hover uncertainly near the elevator, trying to look like I’m intentionally standing alone rather than completely out of my depth.
These people look like they stepped directly out of a Vogue editorial, with perfect hair and casual wealth and confidence.
I can practically smell the old money in the room, mixing with expensive perfume and privilege and power.
I feel suddenly, acutely out of place. This isn’t just stepping into a different social circle; it’s stepping onto an entirely different planet. These people live in a completely different universe than I do, with different rules and expectations and—
Then I see him.
Jack is making his way through the crowd, navigating the sea of designer wear with the ease of someone who absolutely belongs here. His eyes lock with mine, his whole face lights up.
He looks absolutely incredible in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that fits him like it was made specifically for his body.
Because it probably was. No tie, just an open collar that somehow makes the formal outfit look effortlessly cool rather than underdressed.
More than a few heads turn as he passes by.
I’m suddenly aware of exactly how many people are watching him, and by extension will be watching me. The girlfriend. The small-town bartender playing dress-up in the big city. What was I thinking agreeing to this?
But as Jack approaches, his smile widening with what looks like genuine pleasure at seeing me, some of that anxiety starts to recede like a tide going out. There’s something reassuring about having him as an anchor in this sea of strangers and wealth.
“Hey,” he says when he reaches me, immediately leaning in to kiss my cheek. His lips are warm against my skin, and his cologne—expensive and woodsy with hints of citrus—is making my head spin. Then he stays close, his mouth near my ear. “You look incredible.”
The way he says it, low and rough, sends heat straight through me.
“Thanks.” I fidget with my clutch, trying to ignore how my whole body just lit up from his proximity. Damn, he looks good in that suit. Like, make-me-want-to-do-stupid-things good. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
“This old thing?” he jokes, just as he had on our date at the coffee shop, running a hand along the sleeve of his suit with a grin. “Had it lying around in my closet.”
“I’m sure you did,” I reply dryly, grateful for his attempt to ease my nerves even while I’m fighting the urge to run my hands over his chest. “So this is your world, huh?”
Jack laughs, his hand settling on the small of my back. “Well this is the sponsor side of things. The corporate side is a whole different game. Wait till you see an actual race day. Energy drinks instead of champagne, deafening engines, less pretension.”
“I’ll stick with the champagne tonight,” I say.
“Ready to mingle? Robert’s been asking where you are.”
I take his offered arm, the hard muscle under the suit not helping my situation. “As ready as I’ll ever be. Who exactly is here tonight? I need to mentally prepare for the types of conversations I’m about to fake my way through.”
“A mix of people,” he begins guiding me further into the room, his hand warm against my arm. “Racing industry people, Callahan executives, local Seattle business elite, some media. The usual corporate event crowd.”
“Just follow my lead,” he continues. “And remember, you belong here as much as anyone else in this room.”
I give him a skeptical look. “I’m pretty sure that’s false. My car is literally held together with duct tape, Jack.”
“You’re my girlfriend,” he says, lowering his voice. “That means you have a place here.” He squeezes my arm. “Besides, half these people are pretending to belong too. That’s the secret, everyone’s faking it to some degree.”
“Well, at least I’m in good company for faking things,” I murmur, and he laughs, drawing glances our way. I shouldn’t enjoy making him laugh this much. It’s becoming a problem.
A waiter passes and Jack smoothly snags two champagne flutes, handing me one. “Anyway, brace yourself. Robert will want to meet you, and he’s…”
“What?” I take a larger sip than appropriate. “Scary? Judgmental? A vampire who feeds on unsuccessful souls?”
“Direct,” Jack says, mouth twitching. “He doesn’t waste words. Just remember he’s been intimidating people since before we were born. It’s his hobby. Possibly his superpower.”
“So reassuring.” I take another fortifying sip, the bubbles tickling my nose.
We stop to chat with several people, a racing team manager who asks detailed technical questions, a sleek marketing executive who compliments my dress, a journalist Jack seems to know well who asks a few questions about our relationship.
“Jack! There you are.” A silver-haired man in an impeccable navy suit appears in front of us suddenly, cocktail in hand.
His posture screams authority and power, shoulders back, chin up, and his eyes, sharp and assessing, immediately move from Jack to me with the focus of someone who misses nothing. “And this must be Lark.”