32. Alexis #2
“Thank you,” I say, grateful for the praise. I lean against Gabriel slightly, and feel his hand at my hip, solid and supportive.
“Well, I should go make sure everything is set up for the auction.” Connor straightens, giving us a nod. “It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Thorne.”
“Nice to meet you, as well.”
As Connor moves away, Gabriel glances down at me. I look up to meet his gaze, unable to hide my anxiety.
“Was that alright?” I whisper, my voice quiet enough that it’s almost lost to the crowd.
“What are you talking about?” he replies, amusement shining in his eyes.
“I…” I trail off. I don’t want to point out my own failures, but I’m certain I don’t need to. He heard me stutter, loud and clear.
“Don’t worry.” He leans down to plant a kiss on my temple, and a warm sensation unfurls in my chest. “You were amazing, as always.”
The knot of tension in my chest loosens slightly at Gabriel’s words, but a flicker of doubt lingers. “I just feel like I’m not… polished enough for all of this,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “People like Connor probably expect—”
“Alexis.” Gabriel’s tone is gentle but firm, cutting off my spiraling thoughts. “You’re exactly who you need to be. There’s no one I would rather have representing FlashUp.”
I blush, staring down at the bubbles in my champagne flute. Gabriel takes my free hand and gives it a squeeze.
“Try to enjoy yourself,” he murmurs. “You’re amazing, sunshine.”
I nod, managing a small smile. “Thank you. I’ll try.”
A server passes by with a tray of hors d’oeuvres, and Gabriel plucks a canapé off it, holding it out to me. “Here. A little fuel for the evening.”
“Thanks.” I take it from him, my fingers brushing against his, and pop it into my mouth.
It’s smoked salmon on a thin slice of toasted bread, salty and tangy, with a sprig of dill to add variety to its flavor.
I didn’t realize how hungry I was until this moment.
Before the server can vanish from sight, I hurry forward to grab another canapé.
Behind me, Gabriel chuckles. For a moment, I’m mortified. I turn toward him slowly, expecting a recrimination, but he smiles.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” he says. “Eat. Drink. It’s a party.”
“I don’t know if canapés are going to cut it,” I admit, glancing down at the piece of salmon folded across the crostini. “I didn’t eat lunch today.”
He sighs fondly. “Why the hell not?”
“I was at the warehouse,” I admit. “I just lost track of time.”
“You know, when I said you should take on a passion project, I didn’t mean you should forget to eat.” He glances at his wristwatch. “Dinner’s in half an hour. But if you’re too hungry, I can get—”
“No, no,” I say quickly. “I’m good. Half an hour is fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. I’ll survive until dinner.” Two people are approaching Gabriel from behind, and I gesture toward them to draw his attention. “Looks like you’ve got some schmoozing to do, anyway.”
Gabriel glances over his shoulder, his expression shifting into a more composed and professional demeanor as he notices the pair. The couple—a man and a woman, both impeccably dressed—wave as they near us. “Paul and Evelyn,” he says to me in an undertone. “Old friends of my father’s.”
The next half hour passes in a whirlwind of light conversation and hors d’oeuvres. Gabriel seems to know everyone at this party, and there are more introductions than I can keep track of.
I nurse the same glass of champagne, trying not to drink too much, too early. I’m one of the only people taking that precaution, from the looks of things. By the time we’re all ushered into the dining room for our meal, plenty of the guests are rosy-cheeked, swaying slightly on their feet.
“People really don’t hold back, do they?
” I say, amused. I’ve never really paid attention to the other attendees at galas like this.
I usually spend all of my time and energy monitoring my own behaviors and appearance.
In the past, I’ve been less a guest at these types of events, and more of a performer.
“Of course not,” Gabriel says with a wry grin. “They’re getting what they paid for.”
We’re seated for dinner beside Paul, Evelyn, and a third couple I haven’t met yet.
Servers move around us, placing small portions of salad in front of each guest. The salad plate is a mixture of greens, shaved fennel, and a wine-red vinaigrette, topped with a scattering of pomegranate seeds that gleam like tiny rubies.
As the servers retreat, chatter picks up around the table, but I’m too hungry to participate in the conversation much. I let Gabriel take the lead, talking about his future plans for FlashUp and the next few films coming down the pipe at Warbler Studios.
The conversation dies down entirely as the main course is served: filet mignon, accompanied by sauteed asparagus and mashed potatoes.
Everything is perfectly cooked, and I dig in without hesitation.
After the first few bites, I feel abruptly self-conscious.
I look up, expecting to see people staring at me in disgust. But everyone else is focused on their own meal.
The only person looking at me is Gabriel, a soft, affectionate look in his eyes.
Try to enjoy yourself.
I take a deep breath and turn my attention back to my plate. I remind myself that I’m allowed to enjoy this, allowed to indulge in good food and Gabriel’s company without worrying about how it looks to others.
The filet mignon is melt-in-your-mouth soft, the buttery mashed potatoes and crisp asparagus complementing it perfectly. As the conversation around the table picks up again, I ease into it, occasionally chiming in with a word or two when I feel comfortable.
Despite my earlier insecurities, I start to feel more at ease, the initial tension of the evening easing away with each bite. By the time we’re all finished eating, I’m able to relax a little. I motion to a passing waiter, who gives me a fresh champagne flute and takes the empty one.
As the servers move through the tables to collect dishes, Connor Williams takes the stage at the far end of the room and taps the waiting microphone.
“Hello, ladies and gentlemen,” he says. “I hope you’ve all enjoyed dinner, courtesy of our brilliant caterers. We’re going to move on to the auction phase of this evening’s benefit.”
The room quiets, and all eyes turn toward Connor as he continues.
“Tonight, we have some truly exceptional items up for auction, all of which have been generously donated to support our programs. Without further ado, I’d like to present our first item: a guitar signed by the lead singer of the homegrown LA band, the Rose Petals.
This is your chance to snag a one-of-a-kind collector’s item.
Let’s start the bidding at one thousand. Do I hear one thousand?”
The first four items go quickly. The signed guitar is followed by a meet-and-greet with the Lakers. Then there’s a photoshoot with a local professional studio, and a crate of wines curated by a sommelier. And after that—
“Item number five is a deep tissue massage at Serenity Wellness, tucked into the hills above Malibu. This massage will be personalized to your body’s needs, and is guaranteed to deliver a state of total relaxation.”
Maybe it’s the buzz from the champagne, but that sounds like exactly what I need.
“Do I hear five hundred?” Connor calls out.
I raise my hand, drawing a surprised look from Gabriel.
“Five hundred, I see,” Connor acknowledges, his eyes scanning the room. “Do I hear six?”
There’s a murmur throughout the room, but no one raises my bid.
“Six, anyone?” Connor’s voice rings out with a playful challenge, but before anyone can respond, he adds with a dramatic pause, “Oh, I forgot to mention the most important detail. Your massage will be provided by one Jacob Burke, a world-renowned therapist known for his incredible technique and his reputation for making clients feel truly rejuvenated. You’re not just getting any massage, you’re getting the best in the business. ”
Beside me, Gabriel stiffens. Evelyn leans across the table and eagerly tells me, “I’ve gotten the deep tissue package from him before. He’s incredible. You’ll just love it.”
Across the room, someone else’s hand shoots up.
“I have six hundred,” says Connor. “Do I hear seven?”
I raise my hand in turn.
“That’s seven hundred. Anyone want to top that? Let’s hear eight!” There’s a pause as he waits for a bid. When there isn’t one coming, he turns his attention back to me. “I have seven hundred—”
Gabriel shifts beside me, as if considering something. Then, to my surprise, he raises his hand.
“Perfect! Eight hundred, from Mr. Thorne. Thank you, sir. Madam, would you care to make that nine?”
I nod vigorously, raising my hand once more.