“I’m a photographer,” she says.
“Interesting. What kind of photography?”
“Mostly social media at the moment, but my dream is to photograph for National Geographic someday.”
“Interesting,” he says again and turns back to me. “How did you two meet?”
Loaded question. I’m hardly going to tell the chairman of the opera board that I sent a snide Instagram comment to Skye’s employer.
“Skye used to work for Addison Ames,” I say.
“Oh, I see. Used to?”
“Yes.” I take a sip of champagne. “She’s on her own now, doing her own social media influencing as a way to get her photography seen.”
“Social media.” George shakes his head. “Call me old-school, but I don’t get it.”
George is at least twenty years older than I am. “The opera guild has an Instagram account,” I say.
“I’m sure we do, but I’ve never seen it.” He laughs. “Good to talk to you, Braden. I’ll see you onstage after dinner.”
I nod as George goes on to the next table.
Skye takes a sip of champagne as she continues to look around the room. A moment later, she touches my arm gently. “Excuse me for a moment.”
I nod.
She leaves our table and walks around the room, darting her gaze here and there, until she disappears near the entrance. I soon see why when I look at her phone. A post pops up on my Instagram feed—a selfie of Skye in front of the banner at the entrance to the ballroom.
At the Boston Opera Guild Gala! #operaguild #formalball #supportthearts
Comments follow almost instantaneously.
Love your lips! What color are you using?
Just as instantaneously, she replies.
Night on the Town lip stain by Susanne. Perfect for an elegant evening!
I catch sight of her reentering the ballroom. Instead of returning to our table, though, she heads to the table where Peter Reardon and Garrett Ramirez are seated.
Icy rage curls at the back of my neck. What the fuck is she doing?
I play it cool, though, as several guests are approaching me. I say hello and shake hands, still watching Skye out of the corner of my eye.
Peter and Garrett both stand. At least they’re being gentlemen. Or playing the part, anyway. Nope. Take that back. They’re both staring at her tits now.
Those tits, over which I have control.
Fuck. I ought to waltz right over there and give Skye a good yank on the chain. Remind her who she’s with.
Not that I think Reardon or Ramirez are competition, but still… They’re staring at my woman’s tits.
My woman’s tits.
God, I’m fucked in the head. She’s not my woman. I’m not falling in love.
This is nothing but what it is—two adults who are attracted to each other having a good time.