Chapter Three #2
“Yes, but not for hugging them and drying their tears,” she counters. “I’m just saying it might be nice if the world got to see more of that side of Ava Kendrick. Perhaps a certain eligible district attorney…” She trails off, widening her eyes and pointedly pursing her lips.
I glare at her. “Be serious. I can list at least five reasons off the top of my head why that is a terrible idea. The first being that I hate him.”
Shelby snorts. “Well, that’s a lie, so try again.”
“One, it’s not. But two,” I say ticking reasons off on my fingers, “how about the New York Bar Association having a meltdown over the massive conflict of interest? And three, I can’t be with an alpha. You know that.”
“That’s three, not five.” She waves a hand dismissively and comes to collect Maya’s file off my desk. “I started working on a dossier of judges we’re likely to see in her family court circuit. I’ll have it for you tomorrow. Do you want me to have Tony dig into the husband?”
Tony isn’t only my driver. Thanks to his less-than-squeaky-clean past, he has contacts throughout the city. The dirt he digs up on people, I’m not even sure they’re aware of.
“Yes, please. And remind him I need to be picked up tonight by 7:00 for the gala. Did the jeweler drop off the earrings? I hate borrowing pieces; I’m always terrified something will happen to them.”
“Yes,” she says. “And they were thrilled at the chance to have one of their custom pieces photographed on you. They even sent some reinforced backs. I’m not convinced we won’t need tools to get the damn things off you. Have you eaten?”
“Not lunch yet, but I had a decent breakfast,” I say, rubbing my temples. “I could go for egg drop soup from the place on the corner, though. And more caffeine.”
“You need some water,” she stresses as she heads back toward the door.
I make a very childish mocking face to her back, and she flips me off over her shoulder.
“I could fire you for that, you know!” I yell.
“And I could change all the locks to your apartment before you get home,” she sing-songs, sauntering out the door in her fancy new birthday heels.
The Montgomery Family Foundation Gala is held every spring at the New York Public Library, benefiting civic programs like education access and legal aid.
It draws politicians, judges, donors, and enough press to keep The New York Times society section busy for weeks.
As far as charity events go, it ranks in my top three, right alongside the Library Lions in the fall and the Met Gala.
We stop along Fifth Avenue, and Tony comes around to open the car door for me.
Immediately, flashbulbs begin popping. Reporters and paparazzi crowd the library steps, calling names and angling for photos of celebrities and New York City elite for the papers and online tabloids.
The stone lions loom on either side, dramatically backlit against the night sky.
I step out and straighten, pasting on the version of my smile meant for the cameras rather than my clients.
Many people would feel nervous in this environment, but it’s never bothered me.
I’ve always believed in making an entrance.
If you control people’s perception of you, there is no limit to what you can do.
It doesn’t hurt that I know I look good.
My gown is a statement in itself—a long, flowing, custom piece that hugs every curve.
The corset top has delicate emerald-green boning in the same shade as the skirt, which spills into a dramatic train behind me, over a nude lining.
The high slit runs to my hip where the skirt is gathered, revealing my toned legs in a way that makes me feel sexy and shows off my shoes, so it's a win-win.
Tony, God love him, shakes out my train behind me before he gets back in the car to drive off.
I’ve opted to leave off any additional jewelry, letting my hair and the borrowed earrings do the attention grabbing for me.
They’re large, Art Deco-inspired diamond pieces that hang heavy from my ears with emerald teardrops at the bottom, and my stylist had painstakingly curled and brushed my hair into Old Hollywood waves that fall over one shoulder.
“Ms. Kendrick, over here!”
“Ava, look this way!”
“Who are you wearing tonight?”
“Tamara Ralph,” I answer before pausing at the bottom of the steps, giving them a practiced angle.
Chin lifted, slightly over my shoulder, straight posture, and a flirty smile.
Every bit of media attention brings me more clients and more eyeballs on my work for omega rights, so I use it to my advantage.
Inside, the marble floors of Astor Hall gleam beneath my heels as guests cluster with champagne flutes in hand, murmuring and mingling in low voices.
The air smells faintly of citrus, perfume, and books.
Thankfully, they have the air purifiers running, or else the combined scents of all the alphas and omegas in this room would be quickly overpowering.
Beyond the stone arches, the Rose Main Reading Room has been completely transformed.
Soft purple uplighting washes the perimeter, casting a romantic glow against the carved walls and arched windows, while the long oak study tables have been replaced with round dining tables draped in linen and crowned with towering floral installations.
Candles flicker between crystal glassware, throwing warm light across the people seated around them.
Above it all, the painted sky ceiling stretches overhead, clouds drifting across a vaulted expanse of blue and gold.
No matter how many times I see it, a small thrill curls through my chest at the sheer beauty of the space.
I love the library. After we moved to New York when I presented, it was the one place I felt like I could truly seek refuge to deal with all the rapid changes.
Then I see him, leaning against a marble pillar, drink in hand and surveying the crowd. Of course Mark’s here. He’s been everywhere lately. His classic black tux is well-fitted, and though it’s a bit boring for my taste, I have to admit he looks devastatingly handsome in it.
The bastard.
I sharply remind myself that he needs to be avoided at all costs. The incident in the coffee shop the other day proved that. I move, hoping to avoid his notice, but his deep brown eyes lift and find mine, and a slow, cocky grin encompasses his face. Shit.
I don’t want to look like I’m running away from him, so I school a bored expression on my face and glance away, looking over the room and hoping he’ll leave me alone.
Out of my peripheral vision, I see Mark push off the pillar and head my way, and it takes effort to suppress the whine in my throat. Why can’t this man just leave me alone?
“Ms. Kendrick,” he says smoothly, a hint of gravel in his voice.
I surmise that he’s not on his first whiskey of the evening, though he’s far from intoxicated.
Not that I blame him—I was fashionably late, and who can resist an open bar?
“Suppose I should have expected to see you here. You aren’t known for missing a photo op. ”
“Well,” I say with a small smirk, “it would be a crime to let a dress this pretty go unappreciated. I have to give the people what they want.”
“Indeed.” His eyes sweep over me, darkening with something that looks an awful lot like desire, and my mouth goes dry. A server walks by with flutes of champagne on a tray, and I snag one, sipping it quickly.
“So, what brings the illustrious district attorney out tonight?” I question smoothly, shoving anything other than bored indifference deep inside myself.
“I support what the Montgomery Foundation does,” he says. “Education initiatives. Legal aid funding. Plus, I hold an elected office. I’d be an idiot not to take advantage of a few photo ops myself.”
“Legal aid, huh?” I lift a brow. “I thought you considered us defense attorneys the bad guys?”
He lets out a quiet laugh. “Nah, only the incompetent ones.”
“I know you aren’t lumping me into that pool.”
“Trust me,” he says, moving a step closer, and I have to keep myself from swallowing as his dark, rich smell envelops me. “You have never once struck me as incompetent.”
“I’d hope not,” I reply lightly, handing off my now-empty flute to a passing server and using it as an excuse to step away from him.
My pulse races through my veins, and my inner omega is furious that I’m not doing something far more reckless.
Like scenting the hollow of his throat with my cheek. “I’m sure that pains you to admit.”
“Constantly,” he agrees. “You’re a pain in my ass at the best of times.”
“And yet,” I say quietly, “you never seem all that eager to avoid me.”
His mouth twitches as if he’s fighting a reaction. “You make it sound like I seek you out.”
“Don’t you?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Kendrick. I barely think of you at all.”
I laugh. “Likewise, counselor.”
The words are as contrite as ever, but there’s a warmth to them I think we both feel. And it terrifies me. I clear my throat. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go spend my evening with someone who doesn’t make me mildly nauseous.”
I turn away before he can say anything else, telling myself it isn’t a retreat so much as strategic self-preservation. I can feel the weight of my own lie.
For the rest of the night, we avoid each other with deliberate effort, which is somehow worse than our confrontations.
It grates on my nerves, yet keeps me painfully aware of him.
I wonder if he feels it too, because every so often, I glance up and catch him turning, as if he had already been looking at me.
He disappears shortly after dinner. I notice his absence immediately.
I refuse to name the feeling that settles in my chest when he’s gone.