He keeps reaching for me as we make our way into the hotel, and I have to elbow him more than once and remind him to keep it friendly and professional. He shoots me a purse-lipped, displeased smile but backs off.
Despite his nerves, he’s charming and articulate. People express their sympathy over the loss of his father, and while I can sense his tension, no one else seems to pick up on it. I introduce him to my parents, who are chatting with a group of local politicians. As expected, Lincoln is eloquent, and my father is his charismatic self, asking Lincoln all about his pursuits in Guatemala.
Photographers request pictures, as is typical at these events. My father insists that Lincoln join us for a few of them. They’ll be great for social media, both Lincoln’s and my father’s, so I make sure to take a few of my own so I can post them during speeches.
My parents are pulled into another discussion, and Lincoln bends to speak against my ear. I’m hyperaware every time he gets too close, worried about all the cameras and the attention he’s getting tonight. I feel transparent, as if it’s written all over my face that I’ve slept with him. I’m about to remind him, again, of how we need to be careful how we appear in photos, when Lincoln turns to address a huge man with dark hair and the same icy blue eyes as Lincoln. “Hey, cousin! It’s good to see you under better circumstances.”
Now, Lincoln is a gorgeous man. He has the kind of features that take your breath away. The man he’s currently talking to looks like he was carved out of marble and brought to life. I remember seeing him at the funeral, but I’d been too busy keeping tabs on Armstrong at the time to be able to pay much attention.
Beside him is a woman who looks like a human Barbie doll, but not in the sense that she’s plastic. She’s incredibly elegant and poised with long, wavy blond hair and a flawless face I recognize.
The human Adonis grins and pulls Lincoln in for one of those manly hugs with a hearty back pat. I can definitely see the family resemblance between Lincoln and his cousin.
“Wren, this is my cousin Lexington and Amalie.” Now I know the name. She’s Armstrong’s ex-wife, or ex-whatever since their marriage lasted only a handful of hours. “Lex, Amalie, this is Wren, she’s my—”
I cut in, before Lincoln says something that could cause more problems than good. “I manage Lincoln’s PR and make sure he doesn’t wear ripped jeans to fundraising galas,” I say with a smile.
“And here I thought Linc actually had a date.” Lexington takes my hand in his. They’re huge, like the rest of him.
“Going solo, tonight,” Lincoln says tightly, but I can feel his eyes on me, and Lexington gives him a questioning look.
A small dark-haired woman pushes her way between Amalie and Lexington. “You two need at least six inches between you at all times, otherwise you’re at risk of spontaneous humping.” She hands Amalie a glass of champagne and then finally notices Lincoln and I.
We go through another round of introductions, and I meet Ruby, the petite brunette, and her husband, Bancroft, who is the youngest of the Mills brothers, but amazingly is bigger than Lexington.
While Lincoln catches up with his cousins, I chat with the women. Amalie works for Williams Media and Ruby performs on Broadway. They’re fun women, the kind I wouldn’t mind sharing a table with. Unfortunately, we have assigned seating, and they’re two tables over from us.
Based on the place cards, Lincoln and I are seated with his mother, a couple who are huge contributors to the foundation we’re raising money for tonight, Armstrong, and someone named Jordan Cromwell. I don’t know why that name is familiar. Maybe it’s an associate of some kind. Armstrong is already seated and based on the place cards, I’m supposed to sit between them, Lincoln switches mine with Jordan’s, who maybe isn’t here yet, pulls out my chair, and takes the seat beside me, leaving the one between him and his brother empty.
Armstrong gives him the eye, but doesn’t comment. Although he does start muttering about Lex and Amalie and how he can’t believe they’re attending the event. Lincoln gives him an incredulous look. “They own the hotel, and Amalie does charity work for the hospital. Of course they’re going to be here. If you don’t like it, you know where the door is, and if I find out you so much as breathed in Amalie’s direction, I’ll be the one holding your arms behind your back while Lex gives you another black eye and a broken nose.”
“Boys, no fighting,” Gwendolyn says sternly as she slips into the seat across the table. “You’re the center of everyone’s attention. People are watching and they’ll notice dissension.”