Chapter 13 #2
“Right.” He straightens his bow tie. “Right. So sorry, my dear. Got carried away by the holiday spirit.”
He indicates his empty glass of Rumpleshaker and laughs uncomfortably.
As the rest of the table—even Dale and Dillon—falls into a heavy silence, it occurs to me that I might have had just as much success leaving Howard to his own devices tonight.
I’ve never seen a man more intent on shooting himself in the foot over and over.
I lock eyes with Becks, my thunderous expression a question that she answers by tossing her hair, lifting her chin, and wielding her tray with a smile that could power this whole ballroom.
I don’t take my seat again until she’s had kind, respectful exchanges with everyone here as she hands out the latest Chef Samson special.
“Meatball for my overprotective big brother?” she asks with an arched brow when she reaches me.
The table laughs as I meekly sit back down and accept both the offered hors d’oeuvres and the kiss she loudly smacks on my cheek.
She continues around the table, and if I didn’t know about CJ’s plan, I’d miss the way she’s carefully watching the supply.
When she gets down to the ones with extra parsley, she pivots the tray away from Elaine’s outstretched hand to offer the remaining three to Howard.
“Looks delicious.” He twiddles his fingers over the skewered morsels like a greedy toddler and swoops them all up. Becks and I share a moment of silent panic over whether he’s going to offer one of his heat-bomb balls to his wife, but he pops all three in his mouth in quick succession.
Becks sags in relief, then tells Elaine, “I’ll be right back with more just for you. The rest of you, enjoy!” Shooting me the tiniest wink, she whirls and prances back to the kitchen.
That kid. I smile after her, enjoying her delight in this game, although I should probably feel bad for involving her so deeply in what could technically be considered a criminal conspiracy.
“H-holy fucking—” Howard’s voice cuts through the conversation at the table, and everyone stares as he spits out the last of his meatballs.
The half-chewed mass oozes down his chin and bounces off his white shirt before landing on the table in front of him with a plop.
The heat must’ve rolled out exactly as CJ predicted, not hitting him until he was too deep into his third pepper-spiked delicacy to realize the danger.
It’s a beautiful sight. I wish she was here to enjoy it.
“Mr. Randall?” Joanne asks worriedly.
He flops his mouth open and fans his hands over his jutting tongue. ”H-how are you all handling this so well? It’s so hot!“ he gasps, his eyes wild. He fumbles for a beverage and grabs my glass of water.
“Oh, that’s—” I say, stopping myself when I remember what CJ said about ice water making things even worse. “Go ahead.”
He drains the glass and wails, “I-I think I’m dying,” as a trickle of liquid dribbles down his chin.
The VIPs are all looking at him like he’s lost his mind. “Are you usually this sensitive to spice?” Radha asks hesitantly. “Because the meatball I had was mild at best.”
“Same,” Dale or Dillon says as everyone else nods.
“I—” stammers Howard. He picks up a napkin and scrubs at his tongue like he’s trying to take off a layer of skin. “I need to get more water.”
“Wyatt,” Gerry turns to me. “Is your boss always so…”
She hesitates, and Bethany says, “Erratic?”
“Loud?” Franklin offers.
“A little bitch?” Dillon or Dale suggests, exchanging a high five with Dale or Dillon.
“I’ve never seen him struggle with a meal quite this much,” I say in what I hope is an acceptable nonanswer. Everyone’s eyes fall on the untouched meatball sitting on my plate. A week ago, I wouldn’t have trusted CJ not to get a little revenge on me too. Today, I’m choosing to have faith in her.
With an exaggeratedly nervous glance at the assembled guests, I pluck it off my plate, sniff it, hold it up to my eyeline, and take a tentative nibble.
“Oh, this is delicious,” I declare, tossing the whole thing in my mouth. “Very little spice here at all.”
Part of me is braced for CJ to pop out of the kitchen to film my mucous membranes catching on fire from the same slow-rolling ghost pepper sauce she added to Howard’s balls. But nothing erupts as I chew and swallow, and everyone laughs in polite relief.
“To answer your broader question, Gerry, my boss is an extremely hands-on CEO. He knows where every penny goes, both in and out, and he involves himself in line-item budget issues to ensure the financial outcomes that benefit him the most.”
My words are vaguely complimentary and plausibly deniable if you’re not listening carefully, but Gerry’s brows lift like she clocked my subtext, as I hoped she would.
But an additional conversation is is interrupted by a Bavarian flourish announcing the next verse of the “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”
“What are we on?” Joanne glances at her husband with eagerness in her eyes.
“Seven swans,” Bethany says grimly.
Kent pushes his chair away from the table and tosses his napkin on his plate. “I can’t. See you back at the hotel.” He brushes a kiss over his wife’s cheek and speed-walks out of the room like a pack of swans are already nipping at his heels.
“He had a run-in with a shoebill stork during a trip to the zoo when he was ten,” Bethany tells us. “Hopefully some room service will lock that trauma right back down for him.”
I fiddle with the empty meatball skewer on my plate and focus on looking innocent. I couldn’t actually tell him, but Kent would’ve been fine with the next round of entertainment, which I arranged as a small gift to Elaine for putting up with Howard all these years.
Right on cue, there’s Darby ushering seven little-girl ballerinas into the ballroom. She flashes them a thumbs-up and disappears back into the hallway, leaving them in front of the crowd in their feathery leotards.
Elaine gasps when she sees the grinning redhead in the front row. “Howard!” she calls to her husband. “Look, it’s Bailey!”
The Randalls’ only grandchild was one of the dancers in the city ballet’s production of The Nutcracker last month, so Maxine suggested we recruit her and six of her friends to play the swans.
Based on the appreciative coos that swirl across the room as the baby ballerinas step onto the dance floor set up in the center of the room, it’s the perfect calm before the storm to come.
Max and his bandmates wrap up their verse, and Patty, the Oakwood employee running the AV booth, hits play on a selection from Swan Lake, prompting the seven swans to start twirling and jumping with more enthusiasm than skill.
“Howard!” Elaine calls again, but her husband doesn’t look up from his spot at the bar where he’s scrubbing at the meatball stain on his shirt. “It’s Bailey!”
Howard barely glances up. “So it is,” he says, and Elaine abandons her attempts to involve her husband and watches the performance with happy tears in her eyes.
Joanne tears up right along with her. “She’s just lovely, Elaine. A true star.”
Elaine rests her fingers on the string of pearls at her throat. “She’s just—“
And then the screaming begins.