Trouble

“Great, then I’ll leave this with you, and here’s this.” I hold up the extra door card Daisy gave me and my business card, placing both on the side table. “You know how to reach me if you need anything.”

I don’t even look up before heading to the door. He’s freezing me out again, but I did what I needed to do to feel better about what happened. I tried to help him, not sleep with him. He can kiss my ass if he doesn’t want to be friends.

Chapter 12

Spencer

“You don’t look any the worse for wear.” Miles slaps me on the back as I enter the ballroom.

He’s six inches shorter than I am, and his hand hits me right in my injury.

I stifle a noise of pain, forcing a smile. “It’s not that serious—just a tweak. Besides, I couldn’t miss your big event.”

It’s a lie. I’d miss this superfluous extravagance in a heartbeat, but knowing she’s here, single, with all our richest clients in town from up and down the east coast, I dragged my ass off the divan, popped a pain pill, and put on a tux.

Of course, that’s not the way I rationalize it. I’m here as a part of the team, to show our clients how much we value our relationships… and I’m scanning the room, searching for her soft, auburn hair.

The Grand Ballroom is transformed. The overhead chandeliers are turned off, and instead, the room is lit by Ficus trees adorned with twinkle lights that also wrap around the perimeter. It gives the entire space a dreamlike, yellow glow.

A glass bowl holding a clutch of flesh-pink roses is on every table, and they look like brushed velvet. With the statues rising in the center, the entire room has a faint scent of roses. It’s very elegant.

When I passed through the entrance, I nodded to Daisy at one of the tables with the list of names, checking off registrants and handing them magnetic name tags. Their friend Courtney was at the other table that held elegant, beige canvas SWAG bags with the same flesh-pink ribbons.

A live band is at the other end of the room playing standards, and a closer look reveals it’s the same band from the Tuna Tiki. Only, they’re not playing Marley and Buffett tonight—no “Red, Red Wine,” as much as it’s the running gag in this group. They’re all spit-shined and putting on a good show for our neighbors to the north.

I wonder if Joselyn had anything to do with this, considering she has the catering connections. Where is she?

A server passes me with a tray of flutes holding pale pink champagne, and I lift one before stopping in front of the Disney characters Joselyn adapted to our needs. They’re impeccable, like something you’d see on a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade float or in a botanical garden.

My brow tightens, and I have an unexpected flash of memory. I see her falling, her blue eyes wide with terror. My jaw clenches, and I swallow the sudden panic in my throat. I feel ill at the memory.

What is this? Fucking PTSD? I slug the champagne I’m holding and exchange it for another from a passing tray.

How could she think I wouldn’t rush forward and save her? Lowering my chin, I rub my forehead, trying to massage away the image of her broken or worse on this hard wood-parquet floor. Fuck the injury in my back. I’d do it again in a heartbeat to protect her.

Then she showed up in my room last night in beige joggers and a tank top that showed off those gorgeous tits in the best possible way, like she was trying to taunt me.

Her pretty hair was gathered in a high ponytail on top of her head… ideal for wrapping around my fist when I fuck her from behind.

I thought I’d fallen asleep and was dreaming. I’d taken a THC edible to ease the pain and inflammation. It should have knocked me out, but she still got me hard. Dammit.

Her hands were like some divine remedy. It hurt like fuck, but this morning, I actually felt significantly better. Hell, last night when she wasn’t torturing me by massaging my most painful muscles, her voice was like layers of warm cloth easing all the tension.

That probably was the drugs.

Clearing my throat, I try to dismiss the arousal she provokes simply by existing. I’ve had two glasses of champagne mixed with a pain pill. I need to eat something.

I stop at a set of long tables holding vast spreads of seafood and appetizers positioned in front of the giant floral statues. Perhaps Miles was right. Perhaps we can give these jaded New Englanders something they’ve never seen before.

“Spencer. Here you are.” Rick Brimfield clasps my hand in a firm shake. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Rick.” I return his shake firmly. “You made it.”

Speaking of jaded New Englanders, Rick is our richest client out of Boston and a total asshole. Naturally, we’re frenemies.

“Didn’t see you at the welcome dinner last night. Let me guess, you found the only Marilyn in this tiny town and spent the night with her in your room.” His smile is lecherous, but he does know my type.

“Actually, I tweaked my back playing racquetball with Miles. Had to call it early.”