Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
Rowan
I’ve never been to a grand opening party before.
In fact, the office holiday party was the fanciest event I’ve ever been to.
I didn’t even get the chance to go to my senior prom because I was neck deep in a horrible flare up.
Maybe the dress still fits. If not, I have no idea what the hell I’m gonna wear to this thing.
I don’t think I can exactly stroll in wearing a sweater.
Looking at the pile of clothes on the floor next to me, discarded and deemed unworthy of such a fancy night out, I sigh. I lower myself to the ground and start digging through the back of the closet, also known as the bermuda triangle, where new clothes vanish, never to be seen again.
I drag out a large paper bag that has some weight to it and start digging, tossing items into the discard pile, until I find a dress. I pull it out and give it a quick once-over, letting out a low whistle of approval. It’s perfect.
After slipping into the dress, I walk over to my mirror and take a look.
The eggplant-colored velvet catches the light in all the right places, making it look almost sparkling, and the off-shoulder straps accentuate my collarbone and let just enough cleavage show that I feel a little bit bold wearing it.
The skirt hits the ground and features a slit that goes up to my thigh.
I pull the rollers from my hair, letting it cascade down my back and over my shoulders, and I use my fingers to tousle it and give it some extra volume. I add a dainty necklace and bracelet to tie the outfit together and give mirror-me a satisfied nod before heading downstairs.
“Where are you going?” Dad shouts at me from his worn-down recliner, plastic cup in hand. I think it’s the same one he always uses; guess it survived being thrown at me. I don’t think he ever even bothers to wash it – I suppose the alcohol serves as a type of disinfectant.
“I’m going to my friend’s party, remember?”
“Right.” He uses a finger to tell me to come toward him. “Lemme see ya.”
My heart swells as I walk over toward him and bite my lip in a tentative smile. I put my hands out at my sides and give him a twirl, like the ones that Macie gives me when she shows off a new outfit.
“What do you think?” I ask with a smile.
“That it?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. I extend my hand to show him my bracelet. “This goes okay, right?”
He takes a long drink of his scotch, looks me up and down and scoffs before telling me, “You look like a cheap whore.”
My face falls, my heart clunks to a halt in my chest, and embarrassment rises to my cheeks in a burning red flush.
“Thanks, Dad,” I choke out as I hurry to grab my things and go to the door.
It’s too late to change, now, so I guess this is it.
I sip on sparkling cider as the driver Colt sent for me pulls into a long line of cars waiting to park or be valeted, and I look out my window to take in the sheer number of people already pouring inside the building.
There have to be a hundred people out here, all dressed in their most glamorous outfits and looking like a million bucks. I don’t know what I expected a horde of uber-wealthy art collectors to look like, but somehow this still doesn’t quite match it.
The car comes to a stop in front of a red carpet and I carefully step out, trying to hide my awe at my surroundings. This is old hat for all of these people, but I’m floundering like a fish out of water. Just as I’m about to turn tail and dive back into the car, I hear Colt’s warm voice.
“There she is,” he says as he approaches me. He looks good.
He’s wearing a fresh tuxedo, his hair is neatly styled, and his smile is so bright it’s practically fucking sparkling. He takes my hand in his and steps back to get a look at me.
“Wow, you look…” he lifts my hand to give me a twirl. When I’m facing him again, he breathes, “Incredible.”
“It’s not too much?” I ask, more than a little self conscious.
He shakes his head and points to my cane. “You’re gonna have to use that to beat the men away.” I let out a surprised laugh and grab his bicep. “I mean it,” he says, “you’re exquisite.”
There’s a shimmer in his eyes that sends warmth radiating through me, and I have to put a hand on my stomach to calm the butterflies suddenly taking flight in there.
“You don’t clean up half bad yourself, Mr. Fowler,” I tell him with a playful nudge.
Flashing that brilliant smile at me, he offers his elbow. “Shall we?”
I loop my arm through his and let him lead me into the party. The main room is bursting with life and color, the sprawling space decorated with rich jewel tones, music pouring through the air and bodies milling about – chatting, drinking, eating tiny foods off of equally tiny plates.
Directly in front of us is a large fountain filled with champagne that pours over three tiers, which at least five people have stopped in front of to fill their flutes since we walked in.
Colt’s eyes fall on a woman walking past us, wrapped in a skin-tight dress that leaves little to the imagination, and I’m suddenly, almost painfully, very aware of my arm looped in his, and of the fact that at the end of the day, I am just his assistant.
“Do— are there many people from work here?”
“Oh, no,” he tells me, “just Davis, you and myself.” He waves a hand toward the crowd of people. “This is all about the socialites and the stupidly wealthy.”
“Like you?” I ask, a brow arched at him.
“I’m not stupid with my wealth,” he winks. “These are the people that we want to become members. So we can take a little piece of that wealth and turn it into more.”
“So you dazzle them with shiny things like you’re befriending a bunch of ravens.”
He roars out a laugh and looks at me with a smile, telling me, “Exactly, you’re getting it.”
I wrap my arm a little tighter in his, letting those butterflies have free rein inside of me.
No one else from work is here, tonight, not even Emmett.
His own son wasn’t invited, but he chose to bring me.
I don’t want to let it get to my head, but god, this feels incredible.
Is this what it’s like to be high? This sense of euphoria that, maybe, I really am capable of being something to someone?
We walk through the party, mostly so Colt can network and mingle with those stupidly wealthy people he mentioned, until we come to a stop at a bar.
He talks to the bartender for a second and we wait until two glasses are set down in front of us.
Colt hands me a glass with a foggy-looking beverage inside, garnished with a squiggly slice of cucumber on a spear, and he picks up his own glass, filled with a dark liquid.
“Colt, I don’t drink,” I remind him.
“It’s virgin.”
“I— what?” I stammer, feeling my cheeks heat with embarrassment.
“The drink? This is a dry bar. There’s no alcohol.” He lifts his glass. “Coke. Alcohol is on the other side of the party.”
“Oh,” I say with a laugh and take a sip of my drink, washing down crisp, refreshing cucumber and citrus. “Right.”
I always thought I would hate it if a guy ordered for me. It just always came across to me as so controlling and male chauvinistic, but Colt ordering a drink he knew I would like feels kind of nice. Really nice, actually. This is something I could easily get used to, and that makes me nervous.
I cling to Colt like a lost little puppy as we weave through the crowd of people, stopping every now and again for him to check in with some of the attendees I assume he wants to work with in the future.
It sure seems a whole hell of a lot like he’s working instead of attending a massive party, but I keep that to myself and just make a mental note to try and make sure that he has a good time.
The crowd finally breaks as we near the refreshments table, the source of all those tiny foods I’d seen earlier in the evening.
Every single item is miniature – cakes, sandwiches, meats and cheeses, nothing more than two bites’ worth in size.
We each load up a tiny plate with the even tinier foods and take a seat at one of the many tables strewn across the more open area, where everyone is either sitting to eat or paired up and dancing.
Colt picks up a tiny sandwich and I can’t help but laugh at the way that it looks even smaller in his huge hand.
“What is it with rich people and miniature food?” I ask him. “First the holiday party, now this one. Not a full-sized item in sight other than the drinks.”
“It makes them feel important,” he says. “The trick is to stop and grab a big, greasy burger on the way home.”
I look him up and down, soaking in his broad, toned body, and scoff. “Colt Fowler eats greasy burgers?”
Leaning in conspiratorially, he tells me, “Colt Fowler loves a greasy burger.”
“Forbidden fruit, and all that?”
A smirk tugs at the corner of his lip as he leans back in his chair. “Something like that.”
I watch as he fills - and proceeds to empty – his tiny plate two more times before he excuses himself and leaves for the bar to get refills of our drinks, and I pull a few more of those micro-desserts onto my plate while I wait for him.
The chair Colt had been sitting in scoots back and someone plops themselves into it. A man, younger than most of the people here, maybe thirty, faces me. He’s not a bad-looking guy. Classically handsome, but he reeks of Daddy’s money and little understanding of the word no.
“What’s a beautiful thing like you doing, sitting here all alone?” He asks.
I give him a tight smile, really not wanting to engage, and tell him, “I’m not. My…date is just refilling our drinks.”
“Oh?”
I offer a quick nod, trying to dismiss him, and look away. My hand settles onto the handle of my cane, just in case.
“Well, while you wait, why don’t we spend a couple of songs together?” He asks, inclining his head toward the couples dancing behind him.
A hand lands hard on his shoulder and Colt tells him, “She’s not interested.” The warning on his voice sends a bolt of lightning shooting between my legs.