Chapter 8
MILES
My attention is split a hundred different ways the instant we enter the ballroom.
The decorations. Shouting photographers.
The warmth of Caroline’s arm tucked under mine.
Her soft vanilla scent. That clown Fletcher throwing me an unmistakable stink-eye.
Pete Brennan’s booming laughter as he schmoozes and back-slaps and shakes hands like a dickhead. He’s shorter than he looks on TV.
A young woman in a server’s uniform materializes at my side, holding out a circular tray full of fizzing glass flutes. “Champagne, sir?”
The question lingers between us for a long moment, my mouth watering as I watch the tiny bubbles scurry up to the surface.
“No, thank you,” I somehow force out. But, the way I stare at that tray as the server retreats and winds through the crowd, it’s amazing my eyeballs don’t crawl out of my skull to follow it.
Fuck. Get your shit together.
I swallow the spit pooling in my mouth and focus my attention on Caroline—the whole reason I’m here. She’s telling some story—something about unexpected donations, I think—to an older couple who are rapt with attention.
She looks like she was made for this place.
Between her gold dress and blonde curls, she even matches the glittering decorations.
Beaming bright, she greets all sorts of people, introducing me to each one.
I shake their hands and immediately forget their names, too overwhelmed by everything my brain is tripping over.
There’s being a fish out of water, and then there’s me—a dumbass in a borrowed tux at a fucking gala, of all places.
In hindsight, it was beyond na?ve to think I could pull off playing the role of boyfriend to a woman way out of my league several times over—never mind being at a fancy-ass fundraiser with her family and friends, her scowling ex, and the press who are snapping candid photos at every turn…
Jude was right; I’d severely underestimated the booze factor.
I’d planned to just steer clear of the bar area, but the ready-made drinks dangled within my reach have me obsessing about taking one.
Just one. I could take one. Just one to take the edge off this stress.
No. Fuck.
I squeeze my eyes shut, clenching my fists at my sides, and try to steady myself.
“Miles, are you alright?” Caroline’s voice is tinged with concern.
I should win an Oscar for the way I play it off like I got something in my eye, because all that rubbing and blinking is really the performance of a lifetime.
Excusing myself to go to the bathroom, I squeeze Caroline’s hand before turning away.
I dodge an assortment of tuxes and ball gowns as I cut a path toward the men’s room, gluing my gaze to the floor to avoid all the drinks in my eyeline.
My breathing is labored by the time I push into the spacious restroom, and I prop myself over one of the half-dozen sinks, staring at my reflection.
Jesus. Get a grip.
I wash and dry my hands to stall for time—and to avoid seeming like a creep if anyone else comes in—then pull out my phone. I’m about to call my sponsor but, when a couple other guys come in to take a leak, I think better of it and text him instead.
Me
Probably shouldn’t have come to this thing tonight.
Too many drinks being shoved my way.
Barry
Sorry to hear. Can you leave?
Me
I don’t know. I didn’t drive here.
Barry
I could pick you up if you can hang tight for a little bit. Maybe 20 minutes?
Thank fuck Barry lives in Seattle. I never did switch sponsors when I moved back to Lennox. But no, I can’t ask him to rescue me. Hadn’t I told Jude just this morning that I didn’t need rescuing?
Me
Nah, I don’t wanna interrupt your night. Thanks though.
I’ll get my shit together.
Barry
You sure?
Me
I’m sure. Promise.
For a moment, I consider calling Jude, but I can almost see the frown on my brother’s face. The unspoken told you so. The silent don’t fuck it up.
I can’t fuck this up. Won’t fuck this up.
I’ve worked too hard to get this far only to throw it all away.
And I couldn’t stomach the disappointment from Jude if I did.
We both know he has every right to doubt my promises.
My track record hasn’t been great. But, over the last ten months, I’ve been working to change that. To be a better fucking human.
Pocketing my phone, I head back into the crowd and spot Caroline with her dad and a woman about his age who must be her mother. Their expressions are solemn—serious.
When I finally get closer and she spots me, Caroline looks relieved. And the way she lights up? She’s fucking gorgeous.
God, I wanna touch her. Maybe, if I can’t have a drink, I can let myself have this one small indulgence at least.
I’m supposed to be the boyfriend, I remind myself. Act like the boyfriend.
“Hey, baby.” The endearment falls from my mouth without a second thought, and I slip my hand over the bare skin of her lower back, dropping a quick kiss to her cheek. This time, I don’t pull away.
Her startled “Oh!” is too quiet for anyone else to hear over the din of the room, and something inside me hums with satisfaction knowing that little sound was just for me.
I let my thumb linger, slipping it over the dip of her spine as I draw back to meet her eyes.
Caroline seems to catch herself and shifts her attention back to her father, whose focus, in turn, is fixed squarely on me.
I glance at her mother, returning the slightly strained yet polite smile she’s got plastered on her face.
“Mom, Dad, this is…” she starts, pausing as she touches my arm before awkwardly trying again. “Miles, these are my parents, Valerie and—”
“Quick photo, Senator Brennan? Mrs. Brennan?” A photographer to my left croons, interrupting us. Her camera is already poised at the ready, and she must get some kind of nod of approval, because she gets right to it.
Flash. Flash.
“And let’s get one with Caroline too.”
I move to step out of the shot, but Caroline snags my hand and tugs me back to her side, whispering, “You too.”
Right. This was the whole point.
I can’t say no to this woman. Not with those blue-green eyes locked on mine, and certainly not when she slips her arms around my waist and presses against me in that fucking dress.
When I catch sight of Fletcher watching us, I take the time to brush a stray curl back from her temple, my gaze locked on her mouth.
Flash.
I dip down to skim my lips over her cheek and whisper, “This okay?”
Flash.
“Yes.” The word is nothing more than a breath. Her fingers tense against my back and she lifts her chin.
I shift just enough that my lips graze hers.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
“Caroline! Over here!” The photographer’s call pulls us apart before we’ve really kissed—but tell that to the charge running through my veins when the heat of her mouth leaves mine. Remembering myself, I turn toward the camera, sliding an arm around her waist.
“You two look amazing; thanks so much.”
Photos apparently complete, the photographer moves on while Pete and Valerie get drawn into another conversation—right as a man about our age approaches us. He’s a couple inches shorter than Caroline, a clean-shaven, put-together type who clearly belongs here. And he’s grinning.
“I think Fletch is about to have a coronary,” he says, keeping his voice low enough to avoid being overheard, but unable to hide his delight all the same. “You’ve done a number on his ego tonight, Care. And I’m so here for it.”
Caroline introduces him as her best friend, Adrian, and I immediately like the guy; anyone who’s happy to see Fletcher pissed is good in my books.
“I keep telling Care she’s entering her villain era,” he adds, leaning toward me slightly.
“Adrian,” she scolds quietly, although she can’t suppress a smile. “I am not.”
“Long overdue, if you ask me.” Adrian’s amusement is contagious.
“Anyway, as much as I would love to enjoy this delicious schadenfreude with you two all night, we have a small problem.” Adrian explains there’s some issue with one of the donors in attendance—Portia something?
—and pulls Caroline away to help smooth things over.
“Be right back,” she promises, lifting on her toes to kiss me on the cheek. Our eyes lock for a loaded few seconds as she slips away into the crowd, and I realize I’m staring.
“Miles,” a deep voice says behind me, and I whirl around. Pete Brennan’s stepping toward me, slimy self-satisfaction oozing from every pore. He puts a hand on my shoulder and I immediately wish he’d remove it. “Miles Sharpe. Have I got that right?”
“That’s me,” I say, hackles already up.
“Good, good.” He steps closer. Closer than I’m comfortable with, but I resist the impulse to step back.
Touching me and getting in my space—it’s is a blatant attempt at a power play.
Bosses have pulled these stunts with me before, and I refuse to take the toxic masculinity bait.
“Listen, I’m sure it’s no surprise I’ve got contacts with the city. ”
“Uh,” I say. “Okay.”
“With law enforcement, specifically.”
My hackles just grew hackles. Every cell in my body is at attention, my stomach already knotting over where this conversation is headed.
He lifts his glass, and I watch the amber liquid slip between his thin lips, wishing I had a drink of my own. “Found out some interesting information about you, son.”
My jaw clenches at the term son. He can fuck right off with that condescending shit. Still, I have to bite back the impulse to scramble for an explanation. What would I even say? I was young, fucked up, and drunk? That much is probably obvious.
“I’ll be plain with you, Miles,” he goes on. “I’m willing to keep this under my hat. Caroline doesn’t need to know, and the media doesn’t need any help digging up dirt. So I’ve taken steps to keep the information buried.”
I’m not sure what he wants me to say. Thank you? I settle on a cautious, “Alright.”