He’s wearing a velvet fucking suit, for god’s sake! He should look ridiculous. Who gave him permission to be this hot at an event for charity?
All of this is terrible for me in a lot of ways, but especially for two big reasons. One, I don’t want to have to acknowledge his hotness. I work really hard not to think about it every time I’m around him. It’s super rude for him to thrust it in my face after he’s apologized and I don’t hate him as much. Two, if he’s looking this good, it takes away from all of the work I did around him. He was born good-looking, I worked really hard to make this come together.
Mrs. Rafter follows my gaze, watching as Quinton excuses himself from a guest I recognize as the sports reporter and news anchor from 9 News. “That is one handsome fella you got there.” She takes a sip of the manhattan that Paisley made just for her. “Your dad would definitely approve.”
I laugh because the thought of Quinton being “my fella” almost makes me need to get a drink of my own. “He’s not my boyfriend, he’s not even a friend,” I correct her. “I’m just working for him. He’s basically my boss.”
“Is that why he invited me to this fancy thing?” She keeps her eyes focused on him as he shakes hands with guests but never stops heading our way. “Plus”—she finally moves her attention to me—“I saw some bosses look at their employees back in the day, but I think that’d get him sued these days.”
I open my mouth to tell her all of the mortifying details of our first meeting, when he put it in no uncertain terms that he was not interested, but he beats me to her.
“Mrs. Rafter!” He pulls her into his arms, wrapping her in a giant hug. “I’m so glad you made it.”
“Thank you for inviting me. The ladies in my knitting group were spitting nails, they were so jealous.” She looks up at him, not letting him go. “But I told them my granddaughter planned it, so her boyfriend was obligated to invite me!”
My face goes cold. Which is I guess what happens when all the blood drains from it.
The last thing I need is Quinton thinking I’m going around telling people he’s my boyfriend. This is like that nightmare when you’re naked in front of everyone.
Except worse.
And real.
I’m staring at Mrs. Rafter with eyes so wide that it hurts and shaking my head no, hoping she’ll catch what I’m throwing. But instead, she just looks at me and waves me off.
“Oh, stop it, dear,” she says to me before patting Quinton’s arm. “You’re beautiful and talented, he’s a smart man. He knows what a catch you are. He’s lucky to have you.”
“Oh my god,” I groan, wishing I could hide behind my hands, but knowing I have on way too much makeup for that. “I’m so sorry,” I mouth to Quinton, who looks way too entertained by all of this.
Or you know what? Maybe I’m not sorry. Quinton could at least have enough grace to look like he’s not enjoying this so much. But instead his smile grows with every word out of Mrs. Rafter’s mouth and his body is shaking with pent-up laughter. The jerk.
“You’re lucky to have Elliot? I thought she fuckin’ hated you!” Donny moves in between us and stands by Quinton. Supporting my hypothesis that whenever I think things can’t get any worse, they actually can.
I close my eyes and throw my head back. “Somebody kill me now.”
“Of course he’s lucky to have her, just look at her!” Mrs. Rafter gestures at me like I’m a prize on The Price is Right, before motioning to the rest of the room. “Look at what she did here. She’s a catch, this one—I’ve known it her whole life.”
I decide if there’s ever a time to break my no-drinking-during-an-event rule, it’s right now. “I’m going to go check on the bar, you know . . . make sure they’re fully stocked and whatever.”
“Oh good.” Mrs. Rafter hands me her empty glass. “Do get me another one, won’t you, dear?”
“Of course.” I probably have a million things to do right now, but I can’t say no to Mrs. Rafter . . . even after she’s embarrassed me.
“And I’ll take you to your seat,” Quinton says.
She frowns, her eyebrows furrowing together. “I thought it was just open seating?”
“It is,” he confirms before leaning closer to her ear, “but I have a special VIP table for a select few, and of course you’re one of them.”
The empty glass nearly slips from my hands as my jaw falls to the floor. He does have a VIP table, just one, and not even Mr. Mahler is sitting there. But now, Mrs. Rafter is.
Shit. I might cry.
He offers her his arm and she slips hers through it without hesitating before he starts guiding her through the crowd. I’m frozen to the spot, watching them as they go, and he waves off some huge potential donors in order to give Mrs. Rafter his full, undivided attention. And the look on her face? Her smile being the sole focus of his? She is gleaming.
Yup.
I’m totally going to cry.
“Still think he’s a fuckboy?” Donny elbows me in the ribs. While he does ruin the moment, at least he saves my makeup.
I aim my sweetest smile his way and pat his shoulder. “Not as big as you.” Then I walk away, pretending I don’t hear his obnoxious laughter as I go.
When I get to the bar, I’m hoping to get in Paisley’s line because, well, she doesn’t ask me questions. But of course, as luck would have it, a group just ordered a round of shots and she’s busy tending to their needs. I cross my fingers they get so drunk that they forget how much money they donate tonight.
“This is amazing!
