“Yes.” His clammy hand takes hold of mine in a very firm handshake. “Nice to meet you as well.”
“I’ve been thinking about that project we’ve been discussing.” Mr. Mahler directs all of his attention to Charles, as if he didn’t just call me over. “What do you think about having her plan the event?”
Now, I have a lot—and I mean a lot—of pet peeves, but people talking about me like I’m not standing right there is at the top of the list.
“Oh yes.” Charles looks around the room, stopping on the balloons cascading across the ceiling before looking back at Mr. Mahler and nodding his head. “Yes, I think she would do very well.”
He nods once before the pair turns to face me. “I have been tasked with hosting a very important event. It’s a fundraiser, much like tonight, but a little more . . . traditional. Does that sound like something you could handle?”
“Yes, of course.” A traditional, formal sit-down would actually be easier for me to put together. “Does this mean that you want me to stop working with Quinton?”
For some reason, the thought of not working with him anymore—not seeing the aftermath of this event—makes me hesitant to accept this offer.
“Oh no.” Mr. Mahler and Charles laugh like they’re both in on a joke but don’t want to fill me in. “This will be separate from the Mustangs and as such, compensation will be separate as well. Or will this be too much to do while you handle Mr. Howard?”
I ignore the way he seems to growl Quinton’s name. Been there, done that.
“No!” I almost jump at the opportunity. “I would love that!”
Because my mom died when I was young, my dad made sure he had life insurance to help me out if anything ever happened to him. That, along with the money I got from selling a house in Denver, was enough to pay off hospital bills, give him the funeral he deserved, and put a down payment on my place, but I’m not rolling in money . . . not even close.
“Wonderful, just wonderful!” He clasps his hand on my shoulder. “Stop by my office on Friday and we’ll go over some things.”
“I’ll be there.” My cheeks hurt from smiling. Tonight is going better than I ever could’ve imagined. “Thank you so much for this opportunity.”
“You’re welcome, now just don’t let me down,” he says before someone calls his name and he wanders in their direction.
My conversation with Donny from our drive to the game pops unbidden into my head. And sure, maybe Mr. Mahler has ignored me until he saw that I could do this, but Paul told me this is his leadership style. He’s got that “throw them in the pool and let them swim” old-school kind of thinking. But now he’s offering me a job that he could’ve given to anyone. Me! Would a racist do that? Give me not one but two jobs? I don’t think so.
“What was that?” Brynn asks once Mrs. Mahler leaves with what might be her third martini in her hand.
“Mr. Mahler just offered me a job planning a fundraiser for him.”
“Wow!” She holds a hand above the bar, which I high-five with a reckless abandon. “Look at you! Kicking ass and taking names.”
“Thank you.” I hold out my blazer jacket and curtsy. “Thank you very much.”
But before I get the chance to tell her more, my phone vibrates in my pocket with the reminder that it’s time for Quinton to welcome everyone and finally unveil what we’ve been working on.
“I’ll be back,” I tell her. “I’m going to need a celebratory cocktail once everyone leaves tonight.”
“Oh man.” She rubs her hands together, looking more evil genius than bartender. “I’m so getting you drunk tonight.”
“Sounds good to me.” I eye the bar for her whiskey stash. “I know how to Uber.”
—
EVEN THOUGH QUINTON is no longer wooing Mrs. Rafter with his charm, he still isn’t hard to find.
As he is the person everyone in the room is vying to have a moment with, all I have to do is find a large group of people and work my way into the middle.
“Excuse me, sorry, excuse me,” I say as I weave my way to the front of the crowd. The look of relief when Quinton sees me is a stark contrast to the looks I usually get from him. “Mr. Howard?” I’ve learned that sounding overtly professional is the best way to intimidate drunk people into being quiet. “It’s time for you to give your speech.”
“Thank you, Miss Reed.” He nods, amusement lighting his dark eyes at this weird, very formal thing we have going on before he looks back to the group surrounding him. And I know it shouldn’t, but him calling me Miss Reed kinda turns me on? I’ll explore that later. “Thank you everyone for coming tonight. Now, if you would like to gravitate toward the front of the room, I’ll finally get to tell you all of the details behind the reason you’re here tonight.”
I swear, as he talks, the men and women all begin to swoon.
It must be the velvet suit.
That shit is straight magic.
I lead the way to extract him from the madness, feeling very Secret Service and wishing I had an earpiece on. As we’re moving, my back goes straight when Quinton rests a hand on my shoulder to make sure we don’t get separated. And maybe it’s because I haven’t been touched by a man in many months—fine, years! Leave me alone!—but those sparks I feel every time he touches me seem to explode from his fingertips, causing my entire body to tingle.
And let me tell you, nothing makes you feel more pathetic than getting hot and bothered from the completely platonic touch of a man whose first reaction to you was only slightly below disgust.
When we’re finally out of danger from the crowd sucking him back in, he drops his hand and falls into step beside me.
“Are you
