22
As soon as Maria and Peter made it past the red carpet and inside the upscale Beverly Hills hotel where Alex’s charity auction
was occurring, she stopped, clapped a hand to her chest, and took a deep breath.
“ Skit , Peter.” She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to calm herself down. “My heart is still racing. That was Lauren with Alex,
right? His minder? Are you sure she was all right?”
“Yeah, that was Lauren. In the cast chat, he said he was bringing her tonight.” One hand resting protectively on her lower
back, he used the other to scratch at his beard, the motion twitchy and fretful. “I don’t know for sure, but I saw her walking
off with one of the event organizers afterward, and she seemed to be moving okay. And if she’d been seriously hurt, we both
know Alex would have lost his shit entirely.”
“Instead of only partially.” Her weak attempt at a smile died immediately.
Alex’s bellow for help on Lauren’s behalf could have been heard at Stina and Olle’s home across the Atlantic, and no wonder.
That sickly-pale intruder with greasy dark hair had appeared out of fucking nowhere.
Babbling something about red pills, he’d forced his way through the crowds and leaped onto the red carpet, apparently in an attempt to attack Alex.
Only to knock down Lauren instead, when she reacted more quickly than her charge and blocked the man from reaching his target.
Maria and Peter had watched in horror from their spot on the red carpet, too far away to intervene. They hadn’t been able
to protect their friend or his minder. Not before the attack, and not before security dragged the man away.
When Maria sucked in a hitching breath, Peter pulled her into his arms, one big hand warm on her nape, the other rubbing her
back. After a minute, her pulse no longer thumped in her ears. But when she tried to leave his arms, he didn’t let her.
In all honesty, she didn’t fight that hard.
“You have my phone.” Because fucking designers still didn’t put enough pockets in women’s clothing, and she hated fiddling
with a clutch all night. “Can you text him and ask if Lauren got hurt?”
“Of course.” It was a low rumble, and he still didn’t let her go or reach for his phone. “Shit, Maria. Thank fuck you’re fine.
I saw that asshole barge onto the red carpet, and I had no idea what to expect. If he’d had a gun and turned on you next...”
When his voice broke, he trailed off. His arms squeezed around her just a bit too tightly for comfort, and it was her turn
to rub his back—which she did gladly, grateful for his own safety.
As another cluster of auction attendees arrived, he pressed one last soft kiss to her temple and pulled back, looking noticeably
calmer. “Let me text him, and then we’ll grab you some free booze and spend tons of money on things we’d never normally buy.
I personally enjoy bidding on signed headshots of Alex, drawing terrible, terrible things on his face with a Sharpie, and
then sending him pics of the desecration while he complains about how I’m a monster who’s wounded him to his very soul. That’s
a direct quote, by the way.”
The corner of his mouth indented in a subtle smile, another indication he’d relaxed at last.
“Hmmm. Evil and charitable. I like it.” She tapped her chin consideringly. “But is the booze truly free when event tickets cost a hundred
and fifty dollars apiece?”
It was a philosophical question rather than a complaint. She had the money to spend. They both did. And Alex’s choice of charity,
a regional nonprofit working to prevent domestic violence and help survivors rebuild their lives, couldn’t have appealed to
her more.
“Fine.” Heaving an exaggerated sigh, he tapped out his text and slid his phone back in his pocket. “I take it back. It’s not
free booze; it’s booze at no additional cost .”
He mumbled something under his breath, and it sounded very much like you Norse nitpicker . When she cast him a sharp look—because that was nothing less than blatant provocation, given their earlier discussion about
the word Norse —he smiled innocently and angled his elbow in invitation.
Arm in arm, they entered the expansive ballroom. This early in the evening, they still had plenty of time to grab a drink,
eat hors d’oeuvres, and peruse the silent auction items displayed on long tables at the back of the room before the live auction
began. Plenty of guests had already arrived, though, chatting in small groups and clad in everything from sparkly cocktail
dresses to tube tops and ripped jeans.
The tube top people were probably musicians. Even she knew that.
“No one told me I could wear a tee instead of a dress,” she said as they stood in line for the open bar. “At this very moment,
I could have been silently announcing Agnetha and Anni-Frid Were Robbed to everyone who glanced at my boobs.”
He pursed his lips. “Is this an ABBA thing?”
“Yes.”
“Do I want to know?”
“Probably not.”
“Am I going to find out anyway?”
“What do you think?” She smiled at him, beaming with good cheer.
Now at the front of the line, he heaved another exaggeratedly downtrodden sigh and ordered himself a mojito mocktail while
she requested a glass of pinot noir. And by the time they crossed the room to the silent auction tables, his reserves of ABBA-related
knowledge had expanded significantly.
“—though they didn’t write the songs, their voices and performances drove the success of the band, so they deserve more critical
respect than they’ve traditionally received,” she finished. “And don’t even get me started on a newly divorced Bjorn having
his very sad ex-wife sing ‘The Winner Takes It All.’ Even though she apparently loves that song, what a dick move, as you
Americans say.”
He scratched his bearded chin. “You, uh, clearly have strong feelings about this.”
“I have the correct feelings about this,” she told him, and he raised his hands in surrender.
When they reached the first table, she snorted when she saw the current bids for a two-night stay in a five-star San Diego
resort and the opportunity to be a walk-on in a cult-favorite sitcom. The going price for the next item, an exclusive wine-tasting
retreat in Napa, almost made her choke on the fig, honey, and goat cheese crostini a server had offered her moments before.
Which was silly, since she could afford either item.
Hell, she could afford both, and the money would go to a good cause.
But somehow, entering her credit card number into a charitable web site’s donation page and giving them that very same amount without expecting anything in return didn’t feel as . . . excessive?
This was most likely a Swedish thing, much like her instinctive distaste for gated communities. So be it. In both cases, she
could either compromise or find workarounds.
Although she didn’t love those ridiculous, exclusionary oxen-yoke gates, she would accept them if they made Peter happy and
simultaneously entertain herself by mocking them—and him—mercilessly. And the charity would gladly accept her money without
a single, luxurious string attached. Later tonight, she’d visit their website.
Done. She could live with those choices.
“You going to bid on the Napa trip?” Peter asked after swallowing the last bite of his own crostini.
“If I were going to try to win anything, that would be it. But no.” At the next table, a very large signed and framed photo
of a sexily smirking Alex dwarfed the other offerings. She had a feeling she knew who was going to win that item. Then deface
it mercilessly. “I’ll just give the organization money and leave the auction items to the people who’ll be happiest to win
them.”
He gave a little grunt, preoccupied by filling out the form in front of Alex’s photo.
While he emptied his bank account to troll his friend and costar, she kept wandering down the long line of tables. Only to
hear her name shouted from across the enormous ballroom in a very familiar, very welcome, very loud voice.
“Maria! Get the hell over here!” that voice shouted again before Maria managed to respond. “Peter, what the fuck is taking
you so long at that table?”
She turned and saw exactly who she’d expected: Carah, her favorite non-Peter Gates castmate. The other woman was standing by a round table—one of many—at the very front of the ballroom, hand in the air to
catch their attention. After checking in with Peter, who waved her off and continued scanning the silent auction items, Maria
headed that way.
A very attractive woman in a suit with a skinny tie checked her clipboard before letting Maria enter what was apparently the
VIP section. Approximately one millisecond later, Maria was forced to catch an entire grown woman as Carah flung herself at
her costar.
“Oh my fucking God, Maria, I have missed you so fucking much,” Carah declared. “It’s been months since the last goddamn convention.”
“I know,” Maria managed to choke out despite her compressed lungs. Skit . Carah had a grip of steel. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you too. I have some news.”
As soon as Carah let her breathe, Maria would tell her about moving in with Peter. Which would probably prompt another round
of obscenity-studded hugging, since no one in the cast knew they were together yet.
“Ooooooh.” Improbably, Carah managed to squeeze even harder. “Tell me, you withholding bitch.”
Maria’s first attempt to peel off her friend failed. But during the second attempt, she heard yet more voices she knew and
loved and would recognize anywhere. So she put a bit more vigor into her next de-Carahing efforts, which procured her both
a glare from Carah and the ability to turn around and hug Nava and Ramón instead.
Gods above, it was good to see them again. “I didn’t know you were coming!”
“It’s a great cause, and we couldn’t miss the opportunity to check in with you and Peter. Your last night in Ireland, Ramón and I got the sense the two of you—” Nava looked over Maria’s shoulder and grinned. “Ah. There he is. The man in question.”