Chapter 27
MILA
The ballroom shimmers like a Pinterest fever dream in the best possible way.
Soft blue uplighting ripples across the draped walls, casting a wintry glow.
Crystal chandeliers sparkle overhead like frozen constellations.
A string quartet on stage plays something expensive-sounding as guests drift between cocktail tables in floor-length gowns and sleek tuxedos, faces half-hidden behind lace, velvet, and crystal-studded masks.
Mila takes it all in with a deep breath and a death grip on her tablet.
She’s one champagne flute away from a stress migraine, but it’s fine. Totally fine.
A few things went sideways, naturally. Naomi nearly went full Real Housewives of Connecticut on the florist when the centerpieces showed up with the wrong flowers.
The AV team plugged something into the wrong port and blasted ear-splitting feedback across the ballroom.
And someone forgot to print the silent auction placards, which Mila discovered fifteen minutes before the doors opened, nearly giving her a rage aneurysm.
But they fixed it. Every single thing. Possibly with threats.
Now the ballroom is buzzing. The donors are arriving. The Whalers are circulating. The whole night feels like it might actually be working.
Mila feels a little frantic. But also? Kind of badass.
She moves through the event space, heels whispering against the ornate carpet.
Her dress glides with her—a silver, backless slip of silk that catches the light like moonlight on water.
It’s sleek and sophisticated, professional enough to own the room, but enough edge to make people look twice.
She’s already had three people ask who designed it, and she can’t remember if she answered any of them. Her mind’s elsewhere.
She’s smiling. She’s glowing. Or possibly she’s just sweating in a very glamorous way.
But underneath the lipstick and posture and perfect lines, her chest is tight.
Because Theo isn’t here.
And every time the ballroom doors open, her heart vaults into her throat, breath catching—only to crash when it’s not him. Again.
Naomi materializes at Mila’s elbow like a well-dressed storm cloud, sleek and sharp in a black gown that flows like spilled ink at her ankles.
She’s armed with a flute of champagne in one hand and three increasingly urgent reminders about the schedule in the other.
Her tasteful ice-blue mask is edged in silver and dusted with tiny snowflakes that wink under the chandeliers, like frost catching sunlight.
Mila nods through Naomi’s rapid-fire notes about AV cues and contingency plans, but her attention snags on movement near the entrance.
Tall and Carter.
“Gentlemen,” she calls, striding over in heels that bite into her feet with each step, “thank you for showing up looking like the GQ versions of yourselves. Now I need you to circulate. Sponsors are arriving, and I want them to meet the talent.”
Tall’s eyes flick briefly to Naomi, then away.
“If anyone asks me about hockey,” he says, “I’m going to pretend I only speak Swedish.”
Naomi crosses her arms. “You’re from Jersey.”
Tall shrugs, a slow half-smile creeping across his face. “That’s the beauty of it.”
There’s a beat—just long enough to register the tension zipping between them.
Mila clears her throat. “Carter, I trust you’ll keep him from terrifying the donors?”
Carter chuckles. “It’s a full-time job.”
“Godspeed,” Mila mutters, already pivoting toward the next group of arriving guests.
But just as she steps away, she catches it—Tall leaning ever so slightly closer to Naomi.
“How do you say puck in Swedish?” he murmurs, low and unmistakably suggestive.
Mila presses her lips together and lets it slide. Now is not the time to unpack whatever brand of nonsense Tall has decided to unleash on Naomi.
She turns and nearly collides with Jim Pearce, who clasps her shoulders and gives her air kisses like he’s greeting a Hollywood star.
“This,” he says, looking around the ballroom with a gleam in his eye, “is outstanding. Mila, this is exactly what I imagined when we pitched this to the board. Elegant and modern—but still warm.”
“Thank you,” Mila says, allowing herself to enjoy the praise. “We wanted it to feel like something hopeful. Something that made people want to give.”
Jim leans in, smiling. “It’s more than that. You’ve built something very special here. You should feel proud.”
She sees Jake arrive over Jim’s shoulder. He’s walking in alone, dressed in a stylish burgundy tux, his long Viking hair tied back into a sleek ponytail. He’s sporting a gold mask that brings out the icy blue in his eyes, which are trained on her.
But with him, there’s no sign of her best friend. And no sign of Jesse.
She excuses herself from Jim and heads straight for him. “Jake?”
He lifts a hand in a half-wave, wearing the expression of someone who's just realized they have to be the bearer of bad news.
She stops cold in front of him. “Where are Natalie and Jesse?”
“Didn’t you check your phone?”
“I’ve been a little busy running a gala,” she says lightly, fingers already fumbling for her clutch. “Why?”
“Jesse got called up to the NHL,” Jake says. “The Mavericks need a winger. Two guys went down in pre-skate.”
Mila freezes, stomach plunging like an anchor through dark water, dropping away from its moorings with sickening velocity.
Jesse was supposed to be the face of the night—the charming golden retriever everyone wanted a selfie with.
He was the draw. The headline act. She literally wrote a speech for him, full of carefully scripted jokes he was never going to follow.
Jake continues. “They called an hour ago. He and Nat left right away. It’s a three hour drive to Brooklyn. Two and a half if she lets Jesse drive.”
The room doesn’t spin, not quite. But she can already feel her carefully laid plans careening sideways, like plates sliding off a table and shattering on the floor.
Jake softens. “They’re both really sorry to miss it. They’ve been calling you.”
She wants to feel thrilled for Jesse. She is thrilled. Somewhere under the adrenaline and disbelief and rising panic, she knows this is incredible.
But all she can think about is the fact that Jesse was supposed to emcee.
“Shit,” she breathes.
Jake raises an eyebrow. “You okay?”
She nods automatically, already looking past him. Already running scenarios. The speeches portion of the night hinges on someone who can keep it light. Jesse was the perfect choice—funny, warm, familiar to everyone in the room.
Who the hell is going to do it now?
“I’m fine,” she says quickly, voice tight. “I’m just—”
Panicking.
But she can’t say that out loud. Not here.
She swallows it down.
“Excuse me,” she says to Jake. “I’ve got to—”
“Yeah,” Jake says, nodding emphatically. “Go do your thing. Let me know what I can do to help.”
“Thank you,” she says, walking away, eyes already scanning the crowd.
She weaves through the ballroom like a woman on a mission—which, technically, she is. Find someone. Anyone who won’t turn a mic into a disaster.
Naomi materializes at her side.
“Jesse’s gone,” Mila mutters under her breath. “Brooklyn called him up.”
Naomi blinks. “Wait. What? Who’s going to emcee?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
Naomi doesn’t ask more questions. She falls into step beside her, eyes scanning the crowd.
Mila spots Pavel and Tristan near the bar, looking like they just stepped off the set for a cologne ad. Perfect. She beelines over.
“Hey,” she says, too brightly. “Quick favor.”
Pavel raises a brow.
“Jesse was supposed to emcee,” she explains, breath tight. “He’s gone. NHL call-up. I need someone who can keep the crowd warm, read a script, make a few jokes, and not break into hives onstage.”
Pavel shakes his head solemnly. “No English.”
Mila narrows her eyes. “Pavel, I once heard you order a caramel macchiato with flawless pronunciation.”
He shrugs, not even pretending to look sorry.
She turns to Tristan. “Please tell me you’re feeling brave.”
Tristan takes a sip of champagne, then gives her a charming, lazy smile behind his black mask. “I could. But I don’t want to.”
“Awesome. Thanks for nothing,” she mutters, already pivoting.
Naomi is at her elbow again. “What about Tall?”
“I mean, maybe?” Mila says, spotting him near one of the sponsor tables. “He’s weird, but not bad with the media.”
They approach, and she lays it out again—quick, desperate, semi-hopeful.
Tall looks at her like she suggested he get a face tattoo of his search history.
“I am not capable of being charming,” he says flatly.
“He’s not wrong,” Naomi quips.
Mila scans the ballroom and lands on JP—the rookie, baby-faced and looking sharp in a charcoal three-piece suit. Hard no. Cute in a prom-date kind of way, sure, but the kid looks two seconds from asking when curfew is. No way he could hold this room.
Tall shifts his weight, eyes flicking toward the entrance. “Why not ask Theo?”
Mila blinks. “Theo?”
She turns, and joy rushes through her so fast it steals her breath, bright and dizzying, tangled up with nerves so sharp they make her fingertips tremble.
Theo stands at the ballroom entrance, hands at his sides, tux perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders and long frame. Midnight blue with a subtle sheen, sharp lapels, every inch of him crisp and elegant.
Damn, that man was born to wear a tux.
But it’s the mask that does her in.
Matte black, structured, sweeping cleanly across his cheekbones like something out of a dream. It leaves his mouth uncovered—thank God—but frames his eyes in shadow, making them look darker, hungrier. More intense.
And those eyes are on her.
Everything around her falls into soft focus as she drifts toward him, toward her Man in Black.
For a split second, she forgets how to breathe.
He walks toward her with deliberate steps, but there’s tension in the way his jaw ticks—like he’s holding something in.
“Hey,” he says, voice low, almost uncertain.
Mila forces herself to breathe, to speak, to function. “You came.”
His mouth curves, barely. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Those words break something in her. He’s here. He cares.
She takes in the mask again, the way it somehow makes him look both mysterious and exactly like himself.
She leans in, embracing him and breathing in his woodsy, spiced scent.
“I like your mask,” she says, voice quiet in his ear. “It suits you.”
She almost dies when he pulls back and winks.
“You look…” He swallows. “You’re beautiful.”
Heat blooms through her, spreading from her chest outward until even her fingertips tingle with it. Her heart wants to stay right here, wrapped up in this charged, perfect second.
But Naomi slides next to her, eyes full of apology but also taking no shit.
“Mil, I’m sorry but…” she says, voice full of regret. “What the hell are we doing? Speeches are supposed to start in twenty minutes and we have no emcee.”
Her grip tightens on Theo’s arms and presses her face into his chest, feeling the solid muscle there. There’s so much she wants to say to him. So much she needs him to know.
“I want to talk to you,” she says, pulling back and searching his hazel eyes, wishing desperately to suspend time and lose herself in the copper flecks. “I do. But I have to—”
Theo nods once. “It’s okay. Go.”
She hates how gentle he is about it. Like he’s already stepping back. Like he’s used to it.
She nods and turns before she lets herself stay.
Every step away feels wrong. But there’s no time to dwell.
She does another sweep of the room, eyes skimming over glittering dresses and black suits, but her focus is shot. Her head’s somewhere in the clouds, mentally replaying Theo's wink and fixating on how full and perfect his lips had looked under the mask.
This is the part where things come undone—where all the perfect lighting and table settings and wine pairings won’t matter, because the entire room will feel the shift if the host can’t carry it.
Mila sees Jake near the stage chatting with Coach Barbier and his wife.
She pivots and walks straight to him before she can overthink it.
He looks up. Smiles politely. “Find someone?”
She exhales. “Yeah. You.”
His smile slips. “Me?”
“You’re perfect. Former NHL star, current coach, comfortable with a crowd. You know half the people in this room. You’re Jake the Snake, practically a celebrity.”
Jake looks over her shoulder, scanning the crowd like he’s hoping someone else will pop up from behind the ice sculpture and volunteer. No one does.
He drags a hand over his face, giving her a look. “You’re really asking me?”
“I’m asking you to save me,” she says, deploying her most weaponized doe eyes. Natalie would understand. “Please.”
He hesitates for another breath, then sighs heavily. “Fine. Give me the script.”
Relief hits her so hard she sags against the nearest table. “You’re my hero.”
Jake chuckles, shaking his head. “Tell that to my knees.”
And just like that, one fire is out.
She’s still rattled. Still strung tight with nerves. But now she can focus on Theo.