“Abby, you realize that of all the people in this room, some of the most powerful people in the world, you’re the only one who’s discovered how to make an honest living?”
I glanced around, trying to absorb the rather massive implication of that remark.
“No...” I began doubtfully.
“Yes.”
I blinked again, taking stock.
“That’s the First Minister of Wales, that’s the Chairman of the FCC...”
His lips turned up with a smirk. “That’s what I’m saying...”
* * *
The rest of the night passed in a similar fashion. Nick hadn’t been kidding when he said that the rich and famous didn’t gather to watch the fight—they gathered to watch each other. It was the perfect opportunity for the two of us to be seen and photographed by all the right people, but in a relaxed setting—one with plenty of movement, and alcohol, and ambient sound.
Considering the way I’d seized up when confronted by the paparazzi out on the tarmac, it was the perfect remedy.
I danced, and drank, and shook hands, and charmed all the right people. Smiling so hard, that by the end of the night, my cheeks ached from holding the pose.
Never once did Nick leave my side. Never once did he let go of my hand. It was as if the two of us were connected by some kind of invisible tether. One that kept us just close enough that we were never out of the other’s sight.
Still, I couldn’t have been more relieved when the whole thing came to an end.
“Well that...was exhausting.”
I slumped against Nick’s shoulder, holding onto what had to be my tenth flute of champagne. He shifted around slightly, so his arm came down over my shoulder.
“It’s the smiling, isn’t it? It hurts your cheeks.”
“Yes!” I exclaimed, staring at him in drunken alarm. “How did you know?”
He grinned and shook his head, taking another sip from his glass. “You forget, I’ve been doing this for a very long time...”
The fight was over and the ballroom had emptied. Even the caterers had packed up and gone home. The only people left were the occasional janitors—who would skitter in to begin their cleaning, then skitter back out when they saw the two people left in the room.
Nick and I were perched upon one of the abandoned tables. Shoes off. Drinks in our hands. Gazing sleepily at the deserted boxing ring.
I never did find out who’d won the match. When I’d asked him—Nick didn’t know either. He’d just told me, ‘it was the one with the gloves,’ and left it at that.
For that matter...I didn’t even know why we were the only ones left.
“Why are we still here?” I asked suddenly.
I’d been to enough parties in Nick’s entourage to know that he was never the last one to leave. Quite the contrary, he tended to swoop in, sample the best there was to offer, and then swoop back out—off to his next event. Usually with a different girl draped over his arm.
“I had to stay to the end this time.” He stifled a yawn, downing the rest of his champagne in a single gulp. “I was hosting the event.”
“You were hosting?” I repeated in surprise.
It was a testament to how well my team was running things back at the office, that I didn’t know that already. It was also a testament to how thoroughly Nick had been looking forward to showing me off—that he would offer to sponsor an event of this magnitude.
Then something else clicked into place.
“Wait minute...” I repeated with a frown. “You were hosting the event, and the thing kicked off with you and a girl locked in the coat room?”
Nick paused, considering. Then dismissed it with a simple shrug.