Chapter 13
NAOMI
The hotel ballroom looks like it was dipped in liquid money.
Soft blue uplighting shimmers against the draped walls.
Crystal chandeliers glitter overhead, throwing reflections off every glass and sequin in sight.
Somewhere on stage, a string quartet is playing.
And the crowd? Gowns. Tuxedos. Diamond-encrusted masquerade masks.
Everyone floats around like they’ve never spilled coffee on a keyboard or cried in a bathroom stall at work.
Naomi exhales through her nose and pastes on a smile to welcome the adorable older couple arriving.
He’s in a classic tux that doesn’t quite fit at the shoulders, with a Whalers pin stuck proudly to the lapel.
She’s in a glittery teal gown and has her hair pinned up with rhinestone clips that sparkle under the lights, clutching his arm like they’ve been walking into rooms together their whole lives.
It’s cute. Disgustingly, heart-squishingly cute.
The gala is the Whalers’ biggest fundraiser of the year, a black-tie masquerade hosted to support the Connecticut Children’s Hospital.
Donors had paid jaw-dropping amounts for the privilege of attending—and even more for the chance to share a table with a Whalers player.
Naomi and Mila had agonized over the seating chart for days, carefully matching the highest-paying attendees with the team’s most charismatic players.
It wasn’t just about star power; it was about strategy—matching a quiet, retired hedge fund manager and his wife with someone like Carter, who could charm drywall, and making sure no one easily spooked ended up next to Pavel.
The party is in full swing—and she’s one crisis away from crawling under a linen-draped table and never coming out.
She’s lost count of how many things went sideways in the last three hours. Wrong centerpieces. AV feedback loud enough to trigger a cardiac event. Silent auction labels were left at the office in Toronto, so she had to beg the hotel staff to use the printer.
The seating chart is burned into her brain with such force she could recite it in her sleep.
Which is why, when Mila appears beside her looking apologetic, Naomi’s pulse immediately spikes.
“One donor cancelled,” Mila says. “Leaving a massive hole at Table Nine. Can you reshuffle?”
Naomi blinks. “Are you serious?”
“I wouldn’t say it if I weren’t serious,” Mila replies, already pulling up the seating plan on her tablet. “Move Pavel to Nine, pull someone from Fourteen, rebalance from there. You can do it.”
Naomi groans, already running mental geometry.
She doesn’t panic. But right now, she’s one more request away from developing an eye twitch.
“I’ll go print new table cards,” she says tightly, turning on her heel.
She strides through the ballroom, and down the corridor toward the front desk. Her head pounds as she mentally rewrites the seating chart in real-time and calculates how many table cards she needs to re-print.
This event has to run smoothly. Not kind of smooth. Not almost smooth. Immaculate.
Naomi’s poured weeks into this gala—late nights, endless checklists, solving problems before anyone else even noticed them.
She’s done it all quietly, without complaint, because this is her shot.
She’s proven to Mila that she’s not just support staff or the person who writes cute copy, but someone who can lead, organize, and deliver.
And now Richard is here. Somewhere in the crowd, drink in hand, silently judging every detail.
Getting sent to client sites means more than travel or status. It means trust. It means she’s seen as someone who can represent the company, keep her cool, and manage relationships face-to-face. It’s a sign that she’s not only reliable, but essential.
If she wants more opportunities like this, tonight has to be flawless.
No pressure.
Her heels click and her long black gown swishes between her legs as she approaches the front desk and flashes her most winning smile at the front desk guy—Eli, according to his name tag—and explains her dilemma.
“You’re saving lives tonight,” she tells him sweetly, palms pressed together like a prayer. “Very rich, very judgmental lives.”
Eli chuckles and hits another button. “You can sneak me a canapé as payment.”
“Deal. But if I get tackled by a wealthy woman in pearls, I’m blaming you.”
He laughs again, and Naomi leans her hip against the counter, trying not to stress-glare at the printer as it inches along.
This is fine. Everything’s under control. She’s got backup cards, and an updated spreadsheet on her phone. She is the picture of poise.
Until her scalp prickles.
She feels it before she sees it. Like a shift in air pressure. Like someone just changed the station in her head.
She turns, almost against her will.
Tall is walking across the lobby toward her, and her body forgets how to function.
No hoodie. No beanie. No sour grimace. His blond hair is brushed back in an artfully careless way that probably took effort, and the soft scruff along his jaw is just shy of neat. A hint of dark ink peeks out above his collar like an annoyingly hot secret.
And the tux. God help her. The tux fits him as if it were tailored for a magazine cover. Sharp lines. Broad shoulders. Crisp white shirt at the collar, dark jacket tapering just right over that unfair torso that still haunts her dreams.
The man is not built for subtlety. Not with that height, that presence, that thing he does where he looks like he’s barely tolerating the human race.
People in the lobby glance his way—admiring, curious—but he’s oblivious.
Tall spots her near the reception desk and veers her way, and Naomi panics for a moment—actually panics—because she has nothing prepared. No quip. No roast. Not even a sarcastic eye-roll.
As he nears, she straightens, smoothing her dress unnecessarily. Her voice, when it comes, sounds higher than normal.
“You…” Her hand flutters in his general direction. “Look irritatingly decent.”
Perfect. Just hand her a microphone so she can announce how flustered she is in surround sound.
He slows in front of her, eyebrows lifting ever so slightly like he wasn’t expecting that.
Naomi feels his gaze lick over her, unhurried and deliberate.
It starts at her glittering snowflake mask, then trails down the sleek black dress that skims her curves and pools around her ankles like spilled ink.
She feels the exact moment he gets stuck—at the crisscross straps framing her chest, where bare skin peeks through the lattice of fabric, treading that razor-thin edge between professional and sexy.
When his eyes finally return to her face, he clears his throat. “You too.”
Before her brain can regroup with a quip, Eli reappears behind the desk with a small stack of newly printed place cards.
“Remember—crab cakes,” he says, winking as he hands them over.
Naomi nods solemnly. “Crustaceans pulverized into tiny mayo-slathered discs. You got it.”
Eli snorts and heads into the back room.
Which is when Carter strolls in, his burgundy velvet tux jacket gleaming under the lights.
He lets out a low whistle. “Well, damn. Look at you two. Tall and Small.”
Tall doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, we’re a buddy cop show. You die first.”
Carter barks a laugh, clearly delighted that curmudgeon Tall has come out to play. “There he is!”
Naomi forces herself to tear her eyes off Tall long enough to flash Carter a smile. “Hey Carter. Thanks for coming.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Carter grins, then looks between them with the expression of someone who’s been trusted with a juicy secret. “Did I interrupt a moment? You two look like you have a weird dynamic going on.”
“There’s no dynamic,” Naomi says quickly.
“We look like coworkers,” Tall says flatly.
“Coworkers who clean up real nice,” Carter amends, giving Naomi an exaggerated once-over that earns him a glare from Tall.
The goalie hasn’t moved. He’s still planted beside her, hands in his pockets, like someone hit pause on him. His eyes flick to hers again, and she’s not imagining it: he’s not ready to leave.
But Carter claps him on the shoulder. “Come on, Stretch. Let the lady work her magic.”
Tall stiffens slightly at the nickname, and Naomi’s heart tugs.
“I just need to drop these off,” she says, lifting the cards. “You guys go find Mila.”
Tall’s jaw works for a second before he nods. “Right. Time to go smile and shake hands.” His tone could strip paint. “You know how good I am at that.”
“A natural charmer,” Carter says cheerfully.
“I’m everyone’s favorite.”
“A real people person.”
Naomi bites back a smile as Carter grins wider, clearly enjoying himself.
Tall gives her one last look—a beat too long to be casual—then turns and follows Carter into the ballroom, already looking like he’s regretting every life choice that led him here.