7. And Just Like That…
AND JUST LIKE THAT…
CHELSEA
An hour later, I’m well aware that feeling of control was an illusion. I tap my pen against my beloved clipboard, prioritizing the fires I have to put out.
We’re a waiter short, two of the floral arrangements never arrived, and the AV guy is “five minutes away.”
Usually, I revel in these sorts of moments. I’m a damn good event coordinator. A details whisperer. And I get an enormous amount of satisfaction from making things orderly.
It’s what allowed me to keep my family running smoothly when my mother walked out on us. It’s the reason my events run like clockwork. With a to-do list and a timeline on my trusty clipboard, there’s nothing I can’t tackle.
So why is tonight ringing so hollow? Usually events make me feel alive.
“Sorry we’re late.”
Josh Shepherd’s announcement jolts straight through my nervous system, and my panicked gaze flies to the clock.
Have I been so deep in my head I missed a cue? Why didn’t Shanna come get me? The donors need to be let in by—
The time registers, and I’m lightheaded as the adrenaline settles.
What the?
There’s still eight minutes before the cocktail hour officially starts and we let our guests in.
I lower my non-clipboard hand from my chest, hoping I didn’t get any pen marks on my dress.
Peyton sighs. “You’ll have to excuse Shep,” she says, her voice laced with apology. “He’s Canadian and was raised by punctual extremists.”
“If you’re not ten minutes early—”
“You’re ten minutes late. I know, Damsel.” She reaches up and gives her boyfriend’s chest a reassuring pat before straightening his tie. “But you can’t say words like late to an event coordinator. You just gave Chelsea a heart attack.”
His gaze shoots to mine. He looks sheepish. “Sorry. I meant to be here earlier, is all.”
I laugh, a relieved puff of breath. “You’re the least of my worries,” I assure the handsome blond rookie. “And I appreciate your punctuality more than you know. It makes my job easier.”
Shep grins at that, sending a vindicated look at Peyton, but she misses it because she’s scanning the ballroom. “Okay, but this bar setup? Whoever planned traffic flow deserves a raise.”
I snort. “I’ll pass that along. To myself.”
Peyton Hillcrest might be my favorite member of the wives and girlfriends brigade. A human who appreciates event orchestration as much as I do is rare. She’s always got some tip or insight from her bartending gig to share when she’s able to attend Wolfpack events with Shep.
“Well done, girl.” She gives me a wink. “On the logistics and that dress.”
I smile at the compliment, vindicated by my last-minute dress swap.
“You look incredible, too,” I tell her sincerely.
Her black gown has a vintage vibe that suits her rockabilly style to perfection, and her brown hair falls in old Hollywood waves to her shoulders.
At my compliment, Shep gives her an I’m-the-luckiest-man-alive once-over that warms my heart. Especially when he reaches over and takes her hand. She leans against his arm, and the two of them have that giddy air of young love about them.
It’s adorable.
Checking them off the arrivals list, I promise to catch up with them later, before I head toward the front entrance to check in with Shanna.
The next half-hour is a blur of greeting guests and frantically smoothing out issues behind the scenes while making it look like everything is going to plan.
We’ve got a pinch-hitting waiter, new last-minute flowers, and the AV guy finally showed up.
All the guests are here, too, including two I wasn’t expecting, since tonight’s biggest donor, Carl Bing the Timber King, failed to mention them when he RSVP’d.
The Timber King isn’t going to be impressed if I let his daughter and her socialite BFF sit on the floor in the back of the ballroom, which is where non-RSVPers belong, if you ask me, so I send Shanna off in search of extra chairs and place settings.
Which leaves me plenty of time to worry about the fact I still have three absent hockey players. One is stuck in traffic and two are completely MIA, even though the dinner seating is kicking off in—I glance at my phone—twelve minutes.
The old me, the me who’d been working toward the directorship, would have been all over these “challenges,” determined to make sure everything worked out.
Current, non-director me is a little defeated at the realization that a large part of my career involves playing glorified babysitter for a bunch of overgrown man-child types who earn obscene amounts of money and deference for playing a dumb game for a living but can’t be bothered to show up on time for a charity event supporting the Children’s Hospital with a bunch of people who paid a thousand dollars a plate to dine with them.
Inhale the anger. Exhale the stress.
Okay. Maybe my night of passion hasn’t completely exorcised my disappointment at losing the promotion to my brother.
A quick glance around the ballroom confirms that, as per usual, Andrew is nowhere to be found while I work my ass off to—
Nope. Not going there.
“Extra chairs and place settings are on their way,” Shanna reports. “What do you need me to do next?”
I look up from my checklist, breathing a sigh of relief at being able to cross one thing off.
“Hope I’m not cutting it too close. Traffic was ugly.”
Make that two things.
The handsome goalie stops in front of Shan and me, and I smile. With his chin-length hair slicked back and a Brioni suit that fits him like his tailor is a little in love with him, Lincoln Kennedy looks like he was born to attend galas.
Quiet, professional, and focused, he’s one of the few Wolfpack players I don’t have to stress over. “It’s no problem. I got your texts. Thanks for keeping me in the loop. You’re at table five. Shanna will take you over there and give you the lowdown on the donors you’re sitting with.”
“Sounds good.”
Okay, that just leaves Jace Decker, of course—the guy is apparently great on the ice but keeping track of him is the bane of my existence—and the new guy. Brett something. I glance at my list again. Sillinger.
I heard through the grapevine he’s a bit of a problem child, ran into some media trouble after his marriage imploded and hasn’t quite managed to get himself back on even footing yet. I do my best to give him the benefit of the doubt, but he’s definitely not making a great first impression on me.
The extra chairs arrive, and I get them discreetly delivered to table two, relieved to see my brother is making himself useful by keeping the Timber King family entertained with small talk, so my last-minute adjustment to their seating arrangement can remain covert. So far so good.
“Hey there, pretty lady. You looking for me?”
Thank. God.
I swallow my sigh of relief and fix Jace Decker with full resting bitch face. Not that it’s ever had any effect before, but what can I say? I’m an eternal optimist.
“You know the whole reason I sent a car for you was to make sure you were on time tonight, right? And where’s your date? You RSVP’d you were bringing a plus one.”
“Yeah, the date didn’t really work out.”
He scratches the back of his neck, dipping his head so he can look up sheepishly through his lashes. The effect is lost on me, since a) he’s so much taller than me, and b) I don’t believe for a second that Jace Decker has ever been sorry about anything.
Despite the insincerity, his puppy dog eyes and cocky smirk have probably gotten him out of all kinds of trouble for his whole life. The man is stupid hot. He grins when I shake my head in exasperation.
“But I took the car! And since me and Brett go way back, and I knew you’d want him to be on time, too, I had the driver swing by his hotel and pick him up. So, you’re welcome.”
Well, that takes care of that problem. I put a checkmark next to Jace’s name, cross off his plus one, and slide my pen down the roster so I can mark his buddy present and accounted for, too.
“I’m going to start telling you the wrong arrival time for these events if you don’t get your act together. But since you brought me the new guy, I’ll forgive you this once. Where is this Brett you—”
My voice deserts me. I can’t breathe. I’m frozen at the sight of the tall, broad man in the impeccable gray suit who turns at the sound of his name.
No.
Impossible.
There’s no way.
And yet…
He’s here.
The stranger who blew my house down. Along with all my inhibitions.
Still so big and beautiful, it makes my heart stutter.
I told Shanna he caught my eye because he was the only man in the bar not wearing a suit, but that was a dirty lie.
Because tonight he’s owning his suit, and he looks so mouth-wateringly sexy that I know, without a doubt, I would pick him out of any crowd, no matter what he was wearing.
He gets his shock under control quicker than I do. I can tell because I’m still standing wide-eyed by the time he’s followed the curves of my body from head to toe and all the way back up.
It’s a softly intimate perusal, but luckily for both of us, Jace isn’t the kind of guy who clocks subtlety.
“Brett Sillinger, reporting for duty.” He sticks his hand out, and as relieved as I am he's keeping our illicit past under wraps, I eye his proffered hand warily. His suit jacket and cuff ride up a little, and I can see the wisps of black ink I know decorate his right arm from wrist to shoulder. The ones I’d run my fingertips over and scratched my nails down while his body drove into mine.
That hand had slid over my skin, pulled me close, given me orgasms so ground-breaking, my whole world shook.
He lifts a challenging brow, and I force myself to take his hand. Tingles race up my arm, and something low in my belly throbs to life.
“Chelsea,” I tell him. But my voice, and my courage, both desert me before I add my last name.
His easy grin makes me want to climb him like a ladder.
It’s over, I remind myself sternly. One night only. I made the rule myself.
“Chelsea,” he repeats, saying my name like he’s trying it on, and again, like he’s taking it off. “Well, Chelsea, that’s a great dress.”