In other words, they’ve assumed I’m contacting Allison about an auction I didn’t even know existed. A detail that could make this invitation a good thing for Riptide, which is also, a good thing for me. “Just to be clear,” I say. “You’re actually auctioning off items, correct?”
“Right. Exactly. Hawk Legal is gathering donations from our high-profile clientele and auctioning them for this year’s named charity. I assumed that’s where Riptide comes into play.”
“Yes,” I say quickly and sincerely. “Yes, it very well could. I think we could be a match made in heaven, but I did think Allison would be my contact. Is she still with the company?”
Her lips tighten and I get the idea the question is oddly uncomfortable, and I can’t imagine why. “You’ll need to talk to Tyler.”
That doesn’t seem good, I think, but I leave it alone. “How do I find Tyler?” I ask.
She motions to a tall, good-looking man with sandy brown hair who reminds me of Mark Compton in his carriage, and the custom, outrageously expensive suit he’s wearing. And of course, the assumed ownership of the room that radiates from him with a confidence that borders on arrogance. And yet, somehow works for him.
“Thank you,” I say to Katie. “I’ll talk to him.”
I step around the hostess stand and enter the bar, which is a really spectacular place. There are windows everywhere and a city view from pretty much any place you might stand. The bar itself is situated to my left, and there is an outdoor area fanning out beyond that. To my right is an enclosed seating area but of course, the view is still miles of dark sky lit by a Nashville honkytonk of city lights. As for the guests, cocktail attire is now defined by dresses, suits, cowboy boots, and jeans. Not a surprise really since I’d guess that Hawk’s client list probably includes at least half of the country music’s royalty.
I home in on a familiar woman in a gorgeous black dress with pink cowboy boots—a country singer, I decide, though I can’t place her name. Gotta love Tennessee, and I do, I really do. It just doesn’t have enough books for the editor in me, who went to New York for a publishing career, even if that’s not where she’s landed.
I guess I’m just not ready to let go of that part of my life.
Glancing at Tyler, I decide he’s in too deep of a conversation with a couple of men for me to interrupt him right now. Since I have time to kill, I accept a glass of champagne from a waiter carrying a tray filled with bubbly. From there I head to a wall of open windows, stepping outside where there are heaters lit up, but they’re really not needed. It’s a mild October evening, while I’m certain New York City would not be so kind. I lean on the railing and stare out at the city. A part of me doesn’t want to leave, and I know it. Otherwise, I’d already be back in New York and yet, I love my job at Riptide. Don’t I? God, why am I even asking myself that. Of course, I do. Any hesitation I have to return to New York is about my mother.
“We meet again.”
At the sound of a familiar male voice, there is a flutter in my belly and a rush of heat in my blood. I know even before I turn that this is the man I’d almost met in the Hawk building a week ago. The man from the elevator.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I turn to find him standing just behind me.
He’s not in a suit tonight like Tyler Hawk, but he’s also not all cowboyed out, like so many of the other guests. He’s wearing dark blue jeans, paired with a black turtleneck and a brown suede jacket with sleek matching boots.
And yes, he’s him.
The man who’d smelled good and charmed me in the elevator. The man who’s leanly muscled and quite handsome and I noticed these things all too easily because he’d stood too close to me and yet somehow, not close enough.
“We meet again,” I repeat, confirming our prior encounter.
His light blue eyes tell me that he’s pleased with this answer, as if my memory of our encounter pleases him, as if he actually doubted I’d remember him.
“I blinked, and you were gone,” he comments, inching nearer, and resting his arm on the railing next to us.
“I was swallowed by the crowd,” I remind him. “I guess I lost you.”
His lips quirk slightly, a hint of amusement in his expression as if he knows why I disappeared and, in fact, knows her by name, while I only know her as “the blonde woman.”
“And now you’ve found me,” he comments.
“I actually think you found me,” I counter, remarkably comfortable with our banter when I’m usually not good at banter at all. Not with men. I’m not cool that way.