Chapter 15
NAOMI
Naomi is one minor disaster away from blacking out in the middle of the ballroom.
Jesse was supposed to emcee tonight. Jesse, with his media-trained smile, golden-retriever charm, and adorable inability to pronounce philanthropic. But Mila just told her he got called up to the NHL this afternoon—which is, of course, amazing and heart-soaring and the best news ever.
But also terrible. Because now they need a replacement emcee, and fast.
Mila had put her in charge of helping the new guys learn the script.
Plural, because the first candidate got mysteriously vetoed by Richard for reasons Naomi still doesn’t understand, and Carter—backup option number two—found the champagne bar a little too early and a little too hard.
Every fresh development sends her blood pressure into low orbit.
On top of that, the silent auction has entered nightmare territory with disastrously misplaced bids. She went to find Mila to warn her and instead stumbled upon her and Theo looking flushed and suspiciously disheveled backstage.
Naomi’s genuinely thrilled for her. Truly. Mila deserves some well-earned face-licking from the handsome defenseman.
But also…tonight? Really?
Naomi inhales sharply and scans the ballroom, tablet glowing in her hand.
One donor table is demanding champagne. The quartet is prematurely sliding into Top-40 strings.
And Richard—freaking Richard—is standing near the bar, sipping wine and watching her scramble with that smug little smirk that says amateur.
She taps updates furiously into her tablet as if she can bully the stress into submission through the sheer force of her fingertips.
And then—
“Take a break.”
Tall’s voice is low, right beside her. She doesn’t startle.
(She does, but she covers it with dignity. Kind of.)
“I can’t take a break,” she says, voice pitched somewhere between brittle and feral. “I have to speak to the musicians about the setlist, get more champagne for Table Seven, and go check on the dessert buffet.”
Oh god. She’s spiraling.
He doesn’t flinch. Just casually holds out a cocktail napkin with an assortment of tiny appetizers stacked on it. “Take. A. Break.”
She blinks. “Where did these come from?”
“They’re the only vegan ones.” He shrugs. “They’re terrible, by the way. I feel personally insulted.”
Her eyes narrow. “Then why are you offering them to me?”
“Because I’m lying. They’re delicious. I made the server give me the entire tray.”
She stares at him, suspicious. “Why?”
“To bother you.”
Her comeback stalls on her tongue, surprise flickering across her face before she swallows it down.
He’s watching her with that maddening, unreadable expression. “You’re not funny,” she mutters, reaching for one of the canapés anyway.
“I’m hilarious,” he says flatly.
She bites into it. It’s actually incredible—crispy phyllo filled with spiced lentils and caramelized onions, still a little warm.
Her shoulders sag. She chews, swallows, exhales. Then, without fully thinking about it, she reaches up and slides the mask from her face. The thing’s been digging into her temple all night.
Tall looks at her. “This place won’t burst into flames if you take five minutes to breathe, you know,” he says quietly. “Eat something. Sit down.”
She scoffs lightly, gesturing vaguely at the ballroom. “Some of us actually have to work.”
His mouth tugs at the corner. “That a dig?”
“It’s a fact.”
He raises an amused brow. “I still think you should sit, Short Stack. You’re vibrating like an angry chihuahua.”
Naomi glares at him. He offers her another phyllo. She accepts it grudgingly.
While she’s munching, Tall casually flags a server, gets champagne sent to Table Seven, then beckons another to check on dessert.
“There,” he says. “Delegating. Revolutionary concept.”
Naomi pops another bite into her mouth, letting herself lean against a nearby column for a second. Just one second. Her feet hurt. Her brain hurts.
And yet…her chest loosens just enough to breathe.
And Tall’s still standing there. Not looking at her like she’s failing. Not judging. Just quietly, stupidly helpful in his own weird way.
She tries not to smile. Fails.
She looks around, taking stock of the event, of the groups of people smiling and mingling, of the hockey players scrubbed up into suits making small talk with local business owners, of the laughter filtering around the ballroom. Not bad, she tells herself. She and Mila threw a pretty decent ball.
She looks around the ballroom, pride flickering in her chest—
—and her gaze collides with Richard’s across the room.
He’s watching her. Eyebrows raised. That condescending little smirk like he’s caught her slacking off, like he’s already drafting a post-event feedback email accusing her of being unprofessional.
Her stomach drops. Her spine goes rigid.
Oh God. No. Not him. Not now.
“Fuck.” The word barely makes it out before she’s moving—shoving back from the column, leaving her mask and the pile of snacks behind. She doesn’t know where she’s going, just away. Away from Richard’s disdain and the tightening in her chest.
Tall follows.
“Want me to take care of him?” he asks dryly.
“Not funny,” she hisses, trying to keep her tone level even though her whole body is thrumming with panic. “You don’t understand. If Richard thinks I’m slacking off—”
“But you’re not slacking off,” he says.
“It doesn’t matter!” she cries. She sees spots in her vision. What had she eaten today before the canapés? Everything feels too hot. Too real.
“You’re about five seconds from a full meltdown, Smalls.”
She whirls on him just as they reach the edge of the ballroom, heart in her throat. “Do not call me that right now.”
She makes a strangled noise and spins back around, nearly clipping a server with a tray of mini tarts. “I have worked so hard to pull this off. If he sends feedback to Hollis that I was unprofessional, if he gets even a whisper of an excuse—”
“He won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
She turns again, about to snap back, but the look on Tall’s face makes her pause. He’s calm. Infuriatingly calm. Hands in his pockets, jaw steady, eyes fixed on her like he’s not letting her spin out any further.
He steps in a little closer, voice low. “Come with me.”
“Tall—”
“Come. With. Me.”
Her mouth opens, ready to argue, but his tone leaves no room for debate. She doesn’t realize her feet are moving until he’s nudging her through a side doorway with ridiculous gentleness.
They slip into the ballroom’s coat check area. It’s empty and quiet, lined with racks of coats and the faint scent of wood polish and winter air.
Naomi stops walking and whirls on him again, breath shallow. “You can’t drag me away from my own event like I’m your—”
“You weren’t breathing,” he says simply.
“I was fine.”
“You weren’t.”
His eyes are steady. Calm. It throws her even more. Everything in her is trembling—her fingers, her breath, her thoughts—and he’s standing there like a granite wall. Like he can absorb the panic buzzing under her skin.
He takes a small step closer. Her back bumps into a coat rack, and her heart skids sideways.
“Stop being nice to me,” she says tightly. “It’s weirding me out.”
He cocks his head. “It won’t last long with that attitude.”
“God, you infuriate me,” she snaps.
“Likewise.”
And then—he moves.
One second she's mid-sputter, and the next, his hands are at her waist, hauling her against him, his lips crashing into hers.
His kiss steals sound. Breath. Thought.
For a full second she stands there, arms dangling at her sides, lips captured in a kiss she can't process.
“What are you—” she gasps against his mouth.
“Shutting you up,” he murmurs, voice rough against her lips and very effective.
Heat slams through her like a body check as he backs her into the coat rack, mouth slanting over hers. Her knees wobble. Betrayal. Actual betrayal. Her body is team Tall, and she did not approve this roster move.
Naomi doesn't know if it's the stress, the adrenaline, or the maddening geometry of Garret Tall's body, but all her carefully held composure shatters.
Her hands fist in the lapels of his tux, dragging him closer and kissing him back furiously.
He groans softly, low in his throat, and her tongue sweeps in, tasting him in savage, unrelenting strokes.
He tastes like whiskey and cinnamon gum with a dash of infuriating arrogance.
She hates how good he tastes.
Hates it. Loves it. Wants more of it.
Every ounce of her anxiety evaporates into steam, into heat and instinct and devastatingly poor judgment.
He backs her into the rows of coats until her spine hits the wall, pinning her in place with the weight of his body.
When Tall grips a fistful of her hair and tugs her head back, pressing his mouth to her jaw, then lower, her knees give out.
Just—gone. She lets out a sound she doesn’t recognize, part gasp, part moan, and his arm tightens around her waist, catching her easily.
His other hand slides up, warm and sure, fingers wrapping around her throat.
A low, helpless whimper slips out before she can stop it.
“I think I like you like this, Short Stack,” he murmurs, brushing his nose along her throat before kissing her cheek. “Turns out I found a way to shut you up.”
Naomi's hands fly to his hair—stupid, soft waves—and tug roughly, drawing a low groan from deep in his chest. He lowers his head, licking a slow line across the swell of one breast before grazing his teeth over the same spot.
“Less talking,” she gasps, barely able to see straight. “More kissing.”
He obliges, mouth crashing back to hers, hand slipping lower. When his thigh presses between her legs and his mouth skims her jaw again, her fingers claw at his shoulders. Her body is all in. Her brain is screaming. Her common sense has packed a bag and left the building.