Chapter 12
Performance Anxiety
brIGIT
Icannot fucking believe I'm doing this by myself.
It was bad enough when I thought I'd be here with Ian.
My internship is almost over, at which point I'll be a full-time employee and won't have to keep sneaking around with my supervisor. We'll be colleagues, not boss and employee. We'll fill out the proper HR paperwork claiming our relationship.
But tonight was supposed to be our unofficial first time out together.
And at the last minute, he was called away to an emergency meeting, insisting I come anyway to keep up appearances. If neither of us were to show up, it might come across as disrespectful.
Smoothing my dress down, I ease my way into the opulent room, resplendent in silver and pearls, crystal chandeliers hanging above us, reminding every person in this room that if they wanted to donate every penny needed for this cause, they very well could, but they'd much rather parade their wealth around and ask strangers for the money.
I hold back the urge to roll my eyes at the falsity of it all. But it's the world we live in, and if I don't play my part, Ian is going to be really disappointed in me.
Slowly, I peruse the room, captivated by all the beautiful gowns and well-fitted suits, the blatant displays of gorgeous bodies and hideous intentions.
The bar is pressed against the side wall, with a stunning three-dimensional take on a local meadery's logo hanging behind it.
The skull and antlers of a deer, cradling a jar of honey, with a shining steel Balor sign above it.
As the lights shine, reflections bounce off the metal, sending sparks of light across the marble countertop.
I approach slowly, captivated by the stunning, if a bit macabre, piece of artwork made to advertise the company.
I don't know much about them, but their owner has made quite a splash, bringing the medieval into the modern with their flashy bottles and fruit-infused concoctions.
The standing room only bar is packed with bodies, everyone— myself included— desperate to escape facing this overwhelming event in sobriety.
"What can I get you?" a bartender leans over the table, setting a deep purple square napkin on the bartop.
I pause, looking at the display behind her, unsure what I'm looking at. "Uhhh, what are my options?"
A quiet chuckle floats into the air at my side, and I turn to find the warmest amber eyes watching me.
I look around and behind me before looking back at the man, "Are you laughing at me?"
"No," he holds up a hand before placing it over his heart, drawing my attention to his other details.
Tall, broad shoulders, devastating jawline and cheekbones.
His well-sculpted, shiny dark hair looks nearly cemented into place, with only a small strand falling out of place into his face.
"I'm laughing at myself, really. Well, my co-owner and I.
He was convinced this," he points his own tall glass of sparkling wine at the hanging logo, "Would be such a showstopper people wouldn't even care what they're drinking. "
"So this is your doing?" I raise a brow. "You're Mr. Balor?"
Holding out his free hand, he smiles, all teeth and smoldering heat, leaving me blushing from the attention, "Cormac Fomori."
My hand reluctantly finds its way into his, the warmth of his palm pressing firmly into and wrapping gently around mine as I mumble out my own name, "Brigit Danaan.
And hey, I mean, he might not be wrong. I'm sure whatever they're serving is spectacular if you guys put this much work just into the advertising.
I just generally like to know what I'm drinking.
" Pulling my hand from his, he clings just a bit longer than could be considered polite, warming my blood with the thrill of being doted on so wholly.
In my heels, we're nearly the same height, leaving me blessed enough to see his golden brown eyes glittering from up close as his friendly smile shrinks into something less performative, more intimate.
He looks at another bartender, the first having moved on already.
"Just a glass of the sparkling, please. Keep it simple. "
When she hands him a slim glass nearly full of a pale yellow sparkling wine, he holds it out to me without another word, waiting patiently for me to try it.
"Oh, no," I giggle. "Now I've got performance anxiety. What if I don't react properly?"
Giggle?
What the fuck is the matter with me?
Am I so starved of attention that I'll take it from this stranger? I mean, sure, he's gorgeous. Everything most men envy in others, but somehow all forced into one being.
Yes, Ian has been a bit distant lately, but honestly, I think distant is just part of his personality.
Does that really mean that I should be seeking out smiles from someone else?
"I'm sure you'll do just fine," Cormac laughs quietly. "Should I turn around, though? Just in case?"
With a dramatic sigh, I brace myself, "I think I'll be alright."
His gaze darts down to my free hand before landing on my face again, "You know, if it would help, you can hold my hand. For moral support."
My head falls back, an unabashed laugh falling out, my hand landing on his arm, a gesture that would be wholly normal for any of my close friends, but is entirely inappropriate in this instance, so as quickly as it comes, my laughter stops, and I retract from his bicep.
The glittering gold of his gaze beams, landing far too intensely on my face, leaving me hot from both embarrassment and the warmth of his attention.
To hide my mortification, I finally take a sip of the wine, the bubbles fizzing on my tongue.
"Oof," Cormac grimaces. "Not your favorite?"
I open my mouth to respond, shocked into an awkward open-mouth smile as I stutter through a rebuttal. I don't love sparkling wine. And sparkling mead is, apparently, no exception.
"Fucking hell, give it here," he says, taking it from me without any further arguing. "Can she try a glass of the Honey Boy?"
My brows raise, "Honey Boy?"
"Blame Skyler. Again," he chuckles. "I might make the wine, but he's in charge of things like advertising, branding, naming. And he's... well, he's something. But it's a red mead, flavored with boysenberries and an exceptionally rare, sweet honey."
"Ooh, that sounds more to my tastes."
Without missing a beat, the bartender hands me a glass of the deep red liquid, and Mr. Fomori watches silently as I take a sip and barely hold back an ungodly sigh.
"Yeah?" he bites his lower lip, his face lighting up before I've even had a chance to praise the delicious blend, sweet but tart, with a subtle hint of something candy-like. "Good, huh?"
"Delicious," I nod. "Thank you."
"Thank you," he repeats to the bartender, freeing her from this awkward exchange.
On the far side of the room, loud laughter erupts, and someone yells, "CORMAC!"
He looks to the ceiling before his eyes land on me again, "Skyler."
I laugh, looking over at the loudly yelling man who’s nearly drowning in attention from his gathered crowd.
Jet black hair, sharp, angled eyes, dressed in a dark suit with the jacket completely unbuttoned.
Even his blush pink dress shirt has come half undone, blatantly flashing the red blooming across his pale chest from the liquor.
"I'm being summoned," he grins. "But I'm gonna track you down for a dance later. So don't do anything funny and try to run. I will catch you."
He's not even being subtle with his flirting anymore.
Maybe he never was.
I'm just unused to someone being so open with their desire for me that I couldn't tell.
But it's one dance.
What harm could it be?
Before I make the final decision on whether to deny him or not, he steps away, disappearing into the crowd of well-dressed strangers, his amber eyes falling on me again over his shoulder, grinning and holding up his glass in a final toast.