Chapter 31
“cowboy like me” - Taylor Swift
Maeve
My feet are killing me. I made the irresponsible choice to wear a brand-new pair of Manolos without breaking them in first, and now I’m paying the price. I shift from one foot to the other as I listen to Mr. and Mrs. Patel voice enthusiasm over tonight’s initiative.
It’s the ninth annual Pulse of Hope gala, and the Wilson Foundation is bringing awareness to and raising funds for rare genetic heart conditions. The Patels’ son was diagnosed with ARVC several years ago, and they’ve been among our most generous donors since.
While I’m passionate about the cause, I’ve been rushing around for hours. Not only am I hosting this event, but several of the party planner’s crew came down with a stomach bug last night, leaving us short-staffed. I found myself arranging floral bouquets most of the day.
There’s a gentle touch on my elbow, and I turn to find Pierce at my side, holding a French 75. He hands it to me, and before I can even thank him, he’s disappeared back into the crowd.
Gratefully, I sip it, letting the alcohol loosen up my muscles. I’m still hours away from being able to go to bed, but this will help me make it to the end of the night.
Pierce and I aren’t here together, obviously, but the way my body relaxed when I saw him walk into the ballroom earlier is hard to explain. It felt akin to sinking into my mattress in after a long night—like pure relief.
The Patels murmur their thanks and drift away. I take another sip and glance around the room.
We’re in the ballroom of the historic Allerton Hotel, which is an incredible piece of architecture, even if it’s in need of some updates.
Thick pillars stand guard on the east side, lending the space a Roman look.
Intricately carved stone molding lines the ceiling, and the marble floor gleams. Round tables are spaced throughout, holding the floral centerpieces we labored over earlier.
The crystal stemware catches the light from the chandeliers dangling above.
Before I can circulate and make sure things are going smoothly, one of our long-time donors approaches. I paste on my biggest and best smile. “Dr. Hewitt,” I say. “It’s so nice to see you.”
“Likewise,” he says, lifting his drink to his lips. Hewitt is a short man, but what he lacks in height, he makes up for in his midsection. His tuxedo shirt stretches over his paunch before disappearing into his trousers.
“Thank you for coming tonight. Pulse of Hope wouldn’t be possible without generous people like you.” I’ve given this speech so many times, it rolls off my tongue without a thought.
“It’s a great cause.” He scans the room. “To tell you the truth, I almost didn’t come tonight.”
Afraid he has the same stomach bug as the missing staff, I take a step back. “Well, I’m grateful you were able to make it.”
“I had some concerns, you know.” He takes another sip of his whiskey. “After the HavenNet fiasco.”
My spine stiffens. What went down with Deirdre and HavenNet isn’t public knowledge, but enough people are aware of it that I’m not too surprised by his words. The mortification from the disaster hasn’t worn off, though.
“I wasn’t sure it was something you could recover from,” Hewitt continues. “I’m still not sure. But I’ve heard enough to give me the confidence to stick it out a little longer.”
Brows knit, I turn to look at him. “What did you hear?” We haven’t issued any press releases concerning HavenNet since the initial one after we discovered what Deirdre had done.
He sniffs and takes another drink. After lowering his glass once more, he gives me a knowing look. “Someone spoke very highly of your leadership abilities and your vision for the future. Needless to say, it was enough to keep me on board for the time being.”
“Who?” I say before thinking better of it. It’s a major faux pas, but I don’t care. My curiosity is burning. It couldn’t have been either of my parents, unless they were trying to save face for the foundation.
Dr. Hewitt smirks. “Pierce St. James. It seems the man holds quite the opinion of you.”
I feel my lips part in surprise, but no words are forthcoming. As if he’s served his purpose, Dr. Hewitt walks away, smiling into his wine.
My eyes scan the room for Pierce, something that’s becoming a habit.
Was he simply trying to retain funding for HavenNet, or was it more than that?
I drop my gaze to my glass, now empty, and wonder about the fact that he brought me the exact cocktail I would have ordered for myself. Is it possible he—
“What a fabulous evening,” a shrill voice says.
I turn to my left to find Gladys Fairchild nursing what is likely her sixth glass of chardonnay. “Gladys,” I murmur, wishing my own drink wasn’t gone. “I’m so glad you’re here.” It’s obviously a blatant lie, which you’d know if you’d ever met the woman.
The Fairchilds are old money, but I use that term loosely, since they’re more old, less money.
The family fortune ran out some seventy years ago, but they’ve done their best to maintain the same lifestyle as earlier generations.
Unfortunately, that has required racking up considerable debts and donating just enough to charity to retain their invitations to these kinds of events.
Needless to say, this woman is a thorn in my side.
She costs us more than she’s worth, contribution-wise.
“Oh, we wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she gushes. “You know how passionate Patrick is about genetic diseases.”
“Yes, of course,” I say, nodding. I think you mean sexually transmitted ones.
As Gladys drones on and on about her “dear Patrick,” who is currently flirting with not one but two other women, I keep an eye out for a passing waiter. The party is winding down, though, and most of them seem preoccupied with collecting empty stemware.
I become aware of a presence behind me, but before I can turn around, a strong hand slides around my waist. My heart leaps into my throat, but my body instinctively knows who it is. Even if I didn’t recognize his touch, his scent would have identified him.
“Time to go,” Pierce whispers in my ear.
My eyes flutter at the way his breath tickles my neck, and I blink to recover my composure.
Gladys is still talking, flapping her pudgy hands around to convey god only knows what.
I haven’t exactly been paying attention.
Her gaze snags on Pierce, and her eyes light up, even though he is at least thirty years her junior.
“Pierce St. James,” she croons. “How do you manage to get more and more handsome?”
I glance up to see how he reacts to this, but his face remains as neutral as always, not even a hint of pink in his cheeks. Damn him.
“Mrs. Fairchild,” he says. “It’s good to see you. If you don’t mind, I need to steal Ms. Wilson away.” He increases the pressure on my lower back until I don’t have a choice but to go with him, Gladys still sputtering her thanks behind us.
“What are you doing?” I hiss when he directs me to the exit. “I’m not leaving yet.”
“Yes, we are.” He snags the empty coupe glass from my hand and passes it to a server.
I let out a humorless laugh and stop walking. “You’re free to go. We are not doing anything.”
“Maeve, you’re dead on your feet.”
Staring up at him, I wonder if my fatigue is obvious to everyone in attendance or only those who have slept with me.
Fortunately, that faction is quite small, and at this party, practically nonexistent, with the exception of the man in front of me.
“Might I remind you, I’m the hostess, and I need to—”
“Get some sleep,” he finishes, then grabs my arm to steer me to the door. “I know.”
“Pierce, don’t you dare,” I snap under my breath, lest anyone overhear us. “I am perfectly capable of making that decision for myself.”
“Are you?” He regards me with a raised brow. “Because if I know you, you’ll be on your feet another three hours before finally calling it a night.”
I lift my nose in the air. “As a matter of fact, I was planning to head home before you came barging in.”
“My apologies. Why don’t I go fetch Gladys so you can continue your conversation with her.”
Shooting him a lethal glare, I march past him toward the double doors.
“That’s what I thought,” he mutters, following me.
Once we’re in the foyer of the hotel and away from the eyes of the gala guests, I whirl around. “While I may be grateful for your little rescue operation back there, I can get home on my own just fine.”
“I have no doubt,” he says, and crouches in front of me. “But I’m seeing you home all the same.” He lifts my left foot and tugs off my shoe.
“What are you doing?” I have to hold on to his shoulders to keep my balance.
He makes quick work of the other heel, then stands up. “I don’t know why you do that to yourself.”
I gape at him, alternating between his face and the Manolos dangling from his fingertips.
Without giving me a chance to protest, he grabs me beneath my legs and sweeps me into his arms, not an easy feat since I’m wearing my Cynthia Mancroft ballgown in red silk.
I gasp at the sudden movement, then exhale as he settles me against his chest. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I hold on tightly, half afraid he’ll dump me on the ground as a prank.
“Relax,” Pierce murmurs into my ear. “I’ve got you.”
Something stirs in my belly, something warm and fluttery, something altogether foreign. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised by his actions after that revelation the other night, but I am. I relax my grip, letting my head rest against his shoulder as he carries me to his waiting car.
He is strong, and my fear that he’ll drop me dissipates as quickly as it came.
As he walks, I study his jawline, covered in a thin layer of stubble I’ve run my hands and mouth over more times than I can count.
It’s a good jaw, exceptional even, and frames a very nice face.
He’s looking especially handsome tonight in his tuxedo and white bow tie.
As if he can feel my eyes on him, he casts me a sidelong look. When he catches me staring, a hint of a smile lights his eyes. The gurgling feeling in my stomach intensifies.
Things have felt weird since our conversation in the car the other night. He hasn’t confessed to having feelings, exactly, but it feels like skirting the issue at this point. Maybe I should be excited that Pierce St. James seems to want me in more ways than one, but the truth is, I’m terrified.
We reach the car, and the driver opens the door for us. Rather than depositing me inside, Pierce doesn’t even loosen his grip, just slides across the seat with me still in his arms. I hope to god no one saw us outside the hotel.
I make a move to crawl off his lap, but he holds me firmly in place and presses my head down on his shoulder. “Try to sleep,” he whispers.
Feeling like a child, I do what he says, his arms much more comfortable than you might expect. Not to mention that being this close to him means every breath carries his scent. I snuggle into his neck until my nose is pressed directly against his skin.
When we reach my house, he lifts me once again. He doesn’t even set me down once we’re inside but continues upstairs to my bedroom. Lowering me onto the bed, he says softly, “Where are your pajamas?”
I point sleepily to the closet, and he wanders off. Sighing, I recline, grateful to be home at last.
Pierce returns and smirks down at my sprawled form. “Okay, Sleeping Beauty. Let’s get you ready for bed.” He helps me stand and gently removes my dress, which is studded with hundreds of tiny diamonds.
“Thank you for the lingerie,” I say, tracing the edge of the lace thong I’m wearing. True to his word, a box of them arrived several days ago. I blush thinking about him choosing them.
“You deserve it.” He presses a kiss to my bare shoulder, then expertly removes my strapless bra and unclasps the Amarilla Pearl necklace.
After locking my jewelry in the safe, he tugs a satin slip over my head.
My shoes are already off, so he pulls back the comforter and pats the mattress. “In you go.”
I crawl to my pillow, and he pulls the blanket up, tucking it under my chin. Behind me, the bed dips, and I realize he’s crawled in beside me. “What are you doing?” I murmur, already half-asleep. “We don’t sleep together.”
“Shhh,” he says, spooning me. “We do now.”