Chapter 6
Alyssia
“Alyssia, when you’re done with this walkaround, remember to clear all of the glasses from the balconies for me, please?” Grant, the manager of the catering company, requests.
A month after being laid off and confirming my pregnancy, I stand in the center of a celestial themed gala.
In a sea of black velvet walls and draped chair decor, soft gold candles on each of the tables, orb pendant lighting and swirling ceiling projections, dressed in a white button-down and black slacks, I dissolve into the background like the rest of my fellow servers, standing with a serving tray full of champagne glasses.
I acknowledge my boss’ question while holding the tray out for a passing guest.
I’ve managed to parlay my part-time catering position into more hours while I search for a full-time position with actual benefits. Though out of about twenty-eight applications sent out over the past four weeks, I’ve gotten exactly one reply back.
A rejection notification.
Tonight, however, will be different. This event is hosted by the Jacqueline Reed Foundation, an organization created by one of the biggest socialites and philanthropists in the city.
A former colleague told me that the foundation may be looking to hire a new market researcher.
It’s one of the nonprofits that’s still hiring right now.
While I can’t do much as a server besides hold champagne glasses, I can keep my ear open for a name that I can address my resumé to when I apply for the marketing research position.
Professional smile in place, I extend my arms for a male guest to take a glass of champagne as I make my way toward one of the balconies that Grant mentioned.
“Excuse me,” I say lightly to the pair who stand out on the balcony, talking in low tones.
They move aside, giving me room to retrieve the empty glasses and small plates sitting on the table.
“The season’s getting ready to start in a couple of weeks.”
“This is great news, no?” the man with the woman confirms.
Out of the corner of my eyes, I watch her give an elegant dip of her head. “The season is when we bring in the most amount of donations,” the woman says.
My ears perk up at the word donations and at the way she pronounces ‘the’ as ‘zee.’
She’s French.
“Yes, the FIA is doing great work with these charities in recent years.”
I wonder briefly what the FIA could stand for, but it doesn’t bring up any familiar organizations or charities that I’ve ever worked with in the past. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask, but I hold the question.
The only thing I’m here to do is gather as much information as possible to address my resumé to the right person. And collect empty glasses.
I make a mental note of the conversation still going on next to me while placing half empty champagne flutes onto my tray.
The pair look at one another and then back at me.
“Yes … the Fédération Internationale de l'Automobile,” the woman says to the man, and I translate her French into The International Federation for Automobiles in my head.
I’ve never heard of it.
While I wipe down the table a little, the pair continue to discuss something about this organization and the new season that’s said to be an exciting one.
“Do you think he’ll show up tonight?” The guy’s voice lowers, conspiratorially.
“One should think,” the woman replies. “He has to show his face.”
“Yes,” the man answers with a nod, but adds on, “But after such a devastating loss last season …” His grave voice trails off.
They share a look before halting the conversation.
It’s none of my business whatever this conversation is about. I should’ve clocked out once they begun talking about, what I’ve gathered, is some sort of motorsport.
There’s no job for me to be had in that arena. Even if there is a need for a market researcher. I couldn’t see myself working for an organization that had anything to do with racing.
The thought alone forces a shudder down my spine.
Shaking it off, I notice the man and woman have turned to look across the dimly lit room.
“Come,” she waves him off the balcony, “let’s greet Max and Dennis.”
There’s no time to waste in watching them go.
I finish with the table and collect a few more glasses that have been left on the handrail before starting for the main area of the gala.
More people have gathered, making it trickier to wind around them and the tables toward the door that leads to kitchen.
As I pass, someone from one of the groups sticks their hand out to place their empty flute on my tray. I slow my steps, giving him time to place it.
“Travis, we’re so glad you could make it.”
Travis.
In the time it takes me to process the two syllables of his name, my heartrate speeds up, my stomach dips, and my body stiffens. A flash from that night flits across my memory. A sudden low buzzing starts in my ears. This happens every time I stupidly allow myself to think about him or that night.
Which I don’t do often.
“Not him,” I say to myself. There have to be millions of Travises in this world. Probably hundreds of thousands in New York City alone. I’m being ridiculous.
But the voice of the woman who’s called his name is newly familiar.
The woman from the balcony.
But seriously, there’s no way in hell that she could be referring to my Travis.
Did I just refer to him as my Travis?
Like a cat that doesn’t know how to mind its business, I turn to search out that French accented voice to find who she’s talking to. To appease my wayward nerves that she’s definitely not speaking to my—that Travis.
The moment I see his face and know for certain it’s not who my mind keeps tricking me into believing it is, I can go about my work in peace.
Given the darkness of the decor and low lighting, it’s difficult to make out the man’s face at first. But then the crowd shifts and his profile comes into clear view.
My knees are the first to go.
I come close to dropping the empty glasses that sit on my tray. But some amount of unidentifiable grace keeps me from dropping everything.
It’s him.
This I know for certain as I, unwittingly, inch closer to the group of people talking. Though I keep my distance, I get close enough to make out his face among the shadows and reflections cast off by the candlelight from the tables.
That hard jawline that’s now clean shaven whereas there was more than stubble over two months ago, that perfectly clear bronze skin, the short, curly, light brown locks that’s tapered at the sides and back.
And I could never forget those seafoam green eyes and that mouth that forms a perfect, elegant bow.
As I continue to stand there, I’m assaulted by memories and images from Las Vegas. The way he turned my panic into laughter in that elevator when the walls started to close in on me. The arresting stare in his eyes as he watched me eat his final morsel of food in his hotel suite.
Then there’s the way he spent the rest of the night worshipping my body in ways I’d never thought a man I barely knew could.
And he left you the next morning.
I clear my throat as the voice of reason shocks me back into reality. When I become aware of my surroundings again, I realize I’ve gotten too close.
The good news is he hasn’t noticed me.
The bad news is that to get to the back kitchen, I need to pass by his small group without being seen.
Not that he’ll remember you anyway.
I swallow the bitter truth down.
I could probably walk right up to him, look him square in the eye, and he’d have no idea who I was.
That stings more than it should.
I start toward the kitchen doors but am stopped short when another server intercedes.
“Alyssia,” one of my fellow servers calls my name, wrapping his hand around my tray. “I’ll take this back to the kitchen for you. Here’s a fresh tray,” he unhelpfully says with a grin.
I bite back my original reply and mumble, “Thank you,” instead.
“Travis, éléanor has already told me not to ask you about this season, so instead I will ask, are you seeing anyone lately?”
My feet refuse to move. I can’t, for the life of me, get my body to listen to me to pass this group before Travis notices me.
The man who was out on the balcony earlier just asked this question. I tell myself I’ve stopped only to ensure the glasses don’t tip over again, but a part of me thinks I actually want to hear the answer to his question.
“No time for dating,” he answers flatly.
The man makes a noise at the back of his throat. “That’s a shame. Such a good-looking man as you deserves to have a beautiful wife and possibly children sooner rather than later.”
I don’t even register how pushy this guy is being because my breath hitches in my throat in anticipation of Travis’ response.
“That’s not happening anytime soon. My life isn’t meant for kids and may never be,” Travis’ words drop like a stone—heavy and harsh, casting a brief silence over the conversation. “The championship is what’s most important right now.”
His finishing statement solidifies that I need to get the hell away from this group and him.
My mind reels, as if, for the first time I’m recognizing the real possibility that even if he knew about the baby I’m carrying he wouldn’t be interested in the least.
The man’s not looking to settle down given that he’s chasing a championshi—
My thoughts scatter.
A championship. The conversation from earlier. The International Automobile Federation. Travis is speaking with the woman from earlier.
The brief conversation we had in his suite comes rushing back. His obsession with winning. The pieces coalesce as I start to puzzle together who this man is.
Travis is a motorsport driver.
I lose my balance again, but now for entirely different reasons. Images of high-speed cars, metal crushing against metal, piercing screams followed by pained cries take over all five of my senses.
My vision blurs.
“Alyssia, are you alright?” Grant’s there all of a sudden, his voice pulling me back from those horrific memories, as he holds me by the elbow.
“Wh-What?” I shake my head, pulling from his hold to right myself. “I-I’m fine.” I hold up the tray. “Need to take these back.”
On shaky legs, I move around Grant as best I can to clumsily make my departure toward the exit.