Chapter 5
COLLETTA
Iam about to vomit.
Not metaphorically. Not in the cute way people say when they're nervous. My stomach is actively staging a rebellion, churning champagne and anxiety and whatever those little cream puff things were that I stress-ate at the cocktail hour.
"Waste management," Kruk says. He hasn't blinked. Hasn't moved. Just stands there like a monument to violence wearing a suit that's threatening structural failure with every breath. "I handle the disposal of unwanted materials."
The pause stretches out between us like a rubber band pulled to its breaking point, tension humming in the air. I can feel the exact moment when the implications of Kruk's words sink into Derek's champagne-soaked brain, watching his expression shift from polite interest to dawning horror.
Derek's smile freezes on his face, transforming into something plastic and unnatural, like a mannequin's expression caught mid-meltdown. His grip on Madison's waist tightens visibly, knuckles going white against the blush-colored fabric of her dress.
Madison looks between them, her gaze ping-ponging from Derek's increasingly pale face to Kruk's utterly impassive one, sensing that something significant just happened but not quite managing to catch exactly what it was.
Her perfectly shaped eyebrows furrow slightly, confusion flickering across her features.
"Oh," she says brightly, her voice climbing half an octave in that way people's voices do when they're trying to smooth over an awkward moment they don't fully understand, "like recycling? That's wonderful! We're so passionate about sustainability, aren't we, babe?"
"No," Kruk says flatly, his tone leaving absolutely no room for misinterpretation. His eyes haven't left Derek's face. "Not like recycling."
I grab another champagne flute from a passing tray because my first glass is already empty and I don't remember drinking it. The bubbles hit my bloodstream like tiny effervescent grenades, detonating across my anxiety centers.
"That's so interesting," Madison continues, oblivious. "Derek is in marketing. He just got promoted to Senior Brand Strategist at—"
"Nobody cares," I hear myself say, and oh god, the champagne is working faster than anticipated.
Derek's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "Excuse me?"
"I said nobody cares." I take another drink. The glass is empty again. When did that happen? "About your job. Your promotion. Your stupid watch that you keep tilting so everyone can see the logo."
Kruk makes a sound that might be approved. His hand settles on the small of my back, fingers splaying possessively across the fabric of my dress.
Heat blooms everywhere he touches.
"Colletta," Derek says in that condescending tone he used to deploy when I'd get passionate about something he deemed unimportant, "are you drunk?"
"Not yet." I snag another glass. "But I'm working on it. Hey, did you know that some species of anglerfish have males that bite onto the female and then dissolve until they're just a parasitic sac of testicles? That reminds me of you and Madison."
Madison's smile goes sharp. "Wow. Classy."
"Oh, you want classy? I can be classy. Watch this." I down the entire glass in three gulps, champagne fizzing up my nose. My eyes water. I somehow manage not to sneeze. "Ta-da."
Kruk's hand tightens on my back. Not painful. Grounding. Like he's anchoring me to the earth before I float away on a cloud of bad decisions and sparkling wine.
"She gets like this," Derek tells Kruk, shaking his head with practiced disappointment. "Emotional. Impulsive. It's why we could never work out. She needs someone who can handle her drama."
"I can handle many things," Kruk says quietly. Dangerously. "You are not one of them."
The temperature around us seems to drop five degrees.
Derek puffs up, which on his frame looks less threatening and more like a pigeon having a stroke. "Are you threatening me?"
"Assessing you." Kruk tilts his head, studying Derek the way a predator studies prey that's already injured. "Finding you lacking."
"Okay," I say loudly, because that subsonic growl is building in Kruk's chest again and people are starting to stare, "we should circulate. Mingle. Do wedding things. Derek, Madison, this has been terrible. Let's never do it again."
I turn too fast.
The world tilts.
My heel catches on absolutely nothing because the universe hates me, and I'm going down, gravity asserting dominance over my poor life choices.
Except I'm not.
Kruk's arm is around my waist, solid as steel, hauling me upright before I can complete my trajectory toward the floor. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, like I'm made of air and champagne bubbles, setting me carefully back on my feet.
"Steady," he murmurs against my ear.
His breath is warm. His body is a furnace against my back. I'm suddenly acutely aware of how big he is, how his arm is still locked around me, how his thumb is doing this little unconscious stroking thing against my ribcage.
"I'm fine," I whisper, which is a lie of catastrophic proportions.
"You are intoxicated."
"I'm appropriately lubricated for social interaction with my ex-boyfriend and his judgy girlfriend."
"You require water. And protein."
"I require more champagne and a time machine."
Kruk steers me away from Derek and Madison, his hand never leaving my waist. People part around us like we're radioactive. Or like he's radiating such intense "do not approach" energy that their survival instincts are overriding their curiosity.
We make it to a high-top table near the reception area. Kruk deposits me onto a stool with surprising gentleness, then signals a waiter with a look that has the poor man scrambling over immediately.
"Water," Kruk orders, his voice dropping into that particular register that makes people instinctively obey. "And food. Substantial food. Bread. Cheese. Meat."
The waiter, a reed-thin man in his early twenties who looks like he's reconsidering all his life choices, glances nervously between us. "Sir, we have canapés available on the circulating trays, little salmon tartare on endive, some lovely goat cheese crostini—"
Kruk leans forward slightly. Just slightly. But it's enough that the waiter takes an involuntary step back, nearly knocking into his own serving tray.
"Meat," Kruk repeats, enunciating each letter like he's explaining a complex tactical maneuver to a particularly slow recruit.
The waiter's eyes go wide. He nods frantically, already backing away. "Yes. Meat. Right away. I'll find something. Immediately."
He practically sprints toward the kitchen, weaving through the crowd with the desperate speed usually reserved for escaping natural disasters.
I giggle. Can't help it. The absurdity of the situation is hitting me with delayed force: I hired an orc bouncer to be my fake boyfriend at my sister's pastel vineyard wedding, and now he's ordering waiters around like we're in a military mess hall.
"You're ridiculous," I tell him, words slurring slightly.
"You are compromised." He positions himself between me and the rest of the party, blocking me from view. Protective. Possessive. "Drink when the water arrives."
"You can't just command me."
"I can. You will comply."
"That's not how relationships work."
Something shifts in his expression. His gaze drops to my mouth, then back up. "This is not a relationship. This is a contract. You hired me for protection services."
Right. Contract. Fake. Not real.
The champagne in my stomach turns sour.
"Of course," I say brightly, reaching for another passing flute. "Just a job."
Kruk intercepts my hand, fingers wrapping around my wrist. Not hard. But immovable.
"No more alcohol until you eat."
"You're not my dad."
"Correct. I am your hired protection. Which means ensuring you do not injure yourself or compromise the mission."
"The mission is to make my ex-boyfriend jealous and miserable, and I think we're doing great."
"The mission is to protect you." His thumb finds my pulse point, pressing lightly. "From him. From yourself. From any threat."
The water arrives. So does a plate piled with cheese, crackers, and what looks like an entire charcuterie board's worth of meat.
Kruk releases my wrist. "Eat."
"Bossy."
"Effective."
I eat because arguing takes energy I don't have, and because the cheese is actually really good, and because his hand is back on my waist and it's doing confusing things to my ability to form coherent thoughts.
Somewhere between the prosciutto and the aged cheddar, Monica appears in a cloud of tulle and panic.
"There you are! I've been looking everywhere!
" My sister's eyes are wild, mascara slightly smudged.
"We need you for family photos in ten minutes, and Mom wants to know if your date needs any dietary accommodations for dinner, and also Aunt Carol asked if Kruk is 'one of those scary monster boys from the internet' and I need you to run interference. "
"Aunt Carol needs to get off TikTok."
"Collie, I'm serious. Can you please just—" Monica stops, really looking at me for the first time. "Are you drunk?"
"Appropriately celebratory."
"You're drunk." Monica turns to Kruk. "Is she drunk?"
"She has consumed four glasses of champagne in seventeen minutes," Kruk reports. "Her motor control is compromised. Speech patterns indicate inebriation."
"You're keeping count?" I stare at him, momentarily distracted from the lingering taste of champagne and cheese. "Like, you've actually been tracking my alcohol consumption numerically?"
"I track everything." His tone is matter-of-fact, as if monitoring my drink intake is the most natural thing in the world. "Potential threats. Available exit routes. Beverage consumption. Hostile entities."
"Derek's not—" I start to protest, but the words catch in my throat because part of me knows exactly where this is going. "He's not a hostile entity, he's just being a petty asshole—"
"A hostile entity," Kruk corrects.