Chapter Thirteen
The St. Sebastian family knew how to throw a party, Laurie decided as she carried a tray of cannoli-cream-filled chocolate cups toward the dessert buffet, navigating a crowd of people in evening clothes that cost more than her rent. Not that it took a genius to master the formula. Throw open the doors of a beautiful, landmark hotel after giving it a multimillion dollar facelift, invite the right mix of local luminaries, celebrities and media personalities, and pour liberal amounts of top-shelf champagne over everything.
Around her, those lucky enough to make the guest list talked, laughed, and posed for pictures destined for the pages of aspirational magazines. Readers with disposable income would soak in the glossy images and immediately realize Las Ventanas was the destination for the hip and glamorous.
Attending the festivities as one of the extra hands they’d recruited to help with the party took most of the glamour out of the night for her, but a girl had to do what a girl had to do. Earlier today she’d paid bills and mailed out refund checks to half the clients she owed. She was tapped out, and being Booker’s date-for-hire was no kind of long-range solution. Getting back on the roster of extras Las Ventanas called on to handle large events was.
Three years spent as a pastry chef at the resort meant she knew the kitchen, most of the staff, and enjoyed a little more respect than the average temp. But a part of her less receptive to logic couldn’t help feeling like she’d taken a giant step backward. Back to a kitchen that wasn’t hers, and recipes she’d had no input on, following someone else’s directions. Hearing the sous chef call, “Peterson, you know the difference between vanilla zabaglione and white-chocolate mousse. Get out there and tell me what we’re running low on,” had only underscored the fact.
Getting “out there” meant a chance to escape the kitchen for a moment, and the nagging fear this whole working-for-someone-else situation might be more than a temporary thing. She had a job to do—as quickly and invisibly as possible, but she found herself dawdling. Booker circulated somewhere in the crowd and she wanted to see him.
Unfortunately, milling bodies prevented her from getting a good view the room.
And you’re not here to take in the scene. Stay on task.
Right. She concentrated on unloading her tray of cannoli onto the buffet and noting which items they needed to replenish next. When she finished, she straightened, and inadvertently bumped someone standing behind her.
Apology at the ready, she turned, but it stuck in her throat when she found herself face-to-face with Miranda McQueen. Fucking awesome. She swallowed and forced the words out. “Sorry, ma’am.”
Miranda’s dismissive gaze raked over her white smock, and for a second, Laurie thought the woman might not recognize her. No such luck. Those pale, icicle eyes narrowed as they studied her face, and then came the frown.
“You.”
“Laurie,” she supplied.
“Of course. Booker’s interesting friend.” One corner of her mouth tightened into her haughty version of a smirk. “Not on the guest list tonight?”
Laurie straightened, uncomfortably aware of the satisfaction Miranda took from the discrepancy in their positions. She refused to give the old stick the added satisfaction of seeing her sweat the situation. “What can I tell you, Miranda? I’m a woman of many talents.”
“I’ll bet you are, although…” Miranda’s gaze shifted to somewhere over Laurie’s shoulder, and her smirk stretched into a serpentine smile. “Perhaps not quite as interesting and talented as you like to think.”
Laurie turned. Groups of people separated at that moment, and left her with a sightline to the edge of the terrace. Booker stood there, effortlessly handsome in his tuxedo, completely at ease in the lavish surroundings. And why wouldn’t he be? Even if his position as sheriff didn’t earn him a spot on the guest list for events like this, his last name did. Hell, he grew up in this world. He knew it well. He belonged.
The thoughts registered along with a realization he was deep in conversation—eye-to-eye, nothing else exists conversation—with a slim, raven-haired beauty who hung on his every word. They leaned toward each other as they spoke. Her hand rested on his forearm.
Something hot and volatile boiled through her blood, leaving her shaky and short of breath. Her fingernails dug into her palms as she fought an urge to stride over and knock the woman’s hand away.
Cause a scene, look like a crazy freak—make Denise proud.
“It appears Booker has other interests, doesn’t it? Do you recognize her?” Miranda’s insidious questions pricked like needles. “Arden St. Sebastian,” she said when Laurie didn’t reply, “of St. Sebastian Luxury Resorts. A lovely girl from an excellent family. I’m a wedding planner, not a matchmaker, but I have to admit they look good together. She and Booker have quite a bit in common.”
Booker leaned closer to the woman, practically whispering in her ear.
“I’m sure,” she managed through a throat clenched as tight as her fists. The overly familiar hand on his arm didn’t belong to just any woman. It belonged to a beautiful, privileged hotel heiress. Belonged. There was that word again. Miranda McQueen belonged. Ethan Booker belonged. Arden St. Sebastian most definitely belonged. The only person in the room right now who didn’t belong?
Lauralie Peterson.
She should fix that before she did something stupid. With the tray tucked under her arm, she stepped away. “Nice bumping into you”—Lauralie Peterson, master of sarcasm—“I have to get back to work.”
…
Numbers told a story, even when they didn’t add up. The number of times he’d texted Lauralie during the party, hoping to spend a few minutes with her during a break? Three. The number of times she’d replied? Zero.
Fair enough. She’d been working, but more numbers factored in, such as the 1:
45 a.m. staring back at Booker from the screen of his phone, and the three additional unanswered texts he’d sent since leaving Las Ventanas. The story these numbers told didn’t make a fuckload of sense yet, but he intended to get some clarity right now.
He exited his car and took the walkway leading to her door, equal parts relieved and annoyed to see light shining from her windows. He deliberately slowed his steps, letting the relief sink in—his line of work left nasty possibilities in his head when someone suddenly went incommunicado—but as the knowledge she wasn’t lying in a ditch somewhere eased the knot of tension in his gut, it fired up the itch of irritation under his skin. Despite three straight weeks of spending nights together, despite knowing damn well he expected to hear from her, and despite his texts, she’d gone home after the party without so much as a word of explanation. She owed him one, and he wasn’t leaving until he had it.