“You guys go ahead,” I tell the others.
I walk out beside Sabrina, and when we get into the stretch, I make sure I’m beside her.
“Your tardiness was worth it. I like your hair,” I say, kicking my own dumb ass for being tongue-tied.
Right. I mean, I do like her hair.
Even though it’s the first thing out of my mouth, it’s the last thing on my mind.
She smiles wide. There’s a small dimple in her cheek I don’t think I’ve noticed before. Unfortunately, now that I’ve seen it, my dick won’t relax the rest of the night.
I swallow a bearish growl.
It’s a festive mood in the limo. Everyone’s laughing and Dave pops a complimentary champagne bottle, whetting their appetites for booze before we’re even at the formal’s bar.
Miss Bristol laughs herself red, making conversation with the others, so she probably doesn’t notice how I can’t extract my eyes from her.
It’s not fair.
I already know she’ll be the gorgeous center of the ballroom, a star wrapped in sugarplum no red-blooded man could ignore if he tried. Yet the thought of a single asshole ad exec thinking they should try their luck with her makes me want to punch something.
I’m wondering if I can squirrel her away somewhere until the party ends, without raising eyebrows, when I catch Ruby. Alert as ever, watching me, a warning in her eyes.
Shit.
Believe me, I know.
I shouldn’t be losing it, let alone in front of a friend who’s always had my back.
Even though it feels like ripping a bandage off a wound, I inch away from her so our thighs aren’t touching. So I can think without her heat, her scent, her sight burning me alive.
I strike up a conversation with Ruby about her genealogy hobby. She’s taken one of those mail-in DNA tests, and since she was adopted, it’s been one surprise after the next tracing her family tree.
I lend her a tight smile, wishing I could ever share her amusement.
When your family’s as marvelously fucked up as mine, the only shockers are bad ones.
Before I know it, we’re pulling up to the front entrance at the glitzy resort in Scottsdale hosting our event.
The ballroom looks like an old-world palace. Not the sleek, modern conference room it resembled earlier in the day. A wide crystal chandelier hangs in the middle of the room. The tabletops are draped with cloths in pale blues and shimmering silvers.
There’s a dance floor to go with the open bar, encouraging corporate debauchery.
Nobody ever said marketers don’t know how to party—and scar themselves for life with their own stupidity.
Once we find a table, the rest of my team scatters. They’re off to find drinks, mingle, what-have-you, but my assistant is MIA.
I go outside and find her in the darkened hall, wringing her hands.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, stepping up beside her.
Sabrina doesn’t look up, but she lets out a long sigh. “Do you need me here tonight? Like really need me? I took good notes during all the sessions.”
“Of course you did. Your work is always exceptional.”
I have no idea where this is going.
She bites her lip again and finally meets my eyes. “Unless you’re closing some kind of deal or pitching someone, you don’t really need me here...do you?”
Here’s a first.
I’ve had employees call in sick when I didn’t approve their time off. I’ve had assistants upset that I didn’t bring them to conferences because there was too much to do at the office. And I’ve also had personnel furious because I brought them to the conference but didn’t need them for the social schmoozing events.
I’ve never once had an assistant want to attend the conference, but not the after party. My brows knit together like pulled strings.
“Are you asking for permission to leave, Miss Bristol?”
She doesn’t say anything, but nods, too beautiful for life in the shadows.
“Are you sick?” I wonder, worry bleeding into my voice.
“Not exactly. I just...” She veers her head toward the ballroom, a panicked look on her face, then trains her gaze on me. “I don’t belong here.”
What the fuck? I’m stunned but let nothing slip.
She sounds truly anguished, stripped bare, all her usual sassy hellfire a vacant torch.
“Sabrina Bristol,” I say, closing the space between us. “If there’s any woman in Phoenix tonight who deserves to be in that room, it’s you.”
She scans our surroundings like she’s making sure we’re alone.
“Both times I put this dress on, I needed help. I haven’t dressed like this since I was a bridesmaid at my cousin’s wedding. I couldn’t do my hair by myself—”
“Do you know how many people here don’t do their own hair? Hell, most of the men pay someone—”
“And...” she cuts me off. “And I just can’t—I don’t know how to be.”
Because she doesn’t have the time to figure it out? I wonder.
Maybe I am a selfish, demanding brute.