“I called him the minute you walked out my door.”
I was glad I still had some scotch in my glass. I finished it off in one gulp. But the sweet burn couldn’t consume the seemingly obvious truth—that even though it had been Weston who got me here, it had been Donovan who had made sure I’d been single when I arrived.
Eleven
Roxie grabbed two flutes of champagne off a tray as it passed by and handed me one. “You’ve had a lot thrown at you this week. It’s a shame you have to be here on a weekend night.”
Since my initial meeting at Reach on Tuesday, I’d spent the rest of the week coordinating with HR, getting acquainted with the corporation’s operations, and setting up my office. I’d barely seen Weston. I hadn’t seen Donovan at all.
Now I was dressed to the nines in a long green satin slip dress that clung to every curve of my body, my hair pinned loosely at my nape, hiding in a corner at The Sky Launch so I could attend Weston’s engagement party. Not at all how I’d expected to spend my first Saturday in New York.
“It’s not that bad,” I said, lying through my teeth. The party, Weston had told me, had been pulled together without much notice, yet there still seemed to be four to five hundred people spread across the dance floor of the rented nightclub. I supposed that’s what it was like to be part of the rich and elite—popularity was part of the package.
Honestly, there were so many guests my attendance would probably have gone unnoticed. I wasn’t sure why I’d come.
Yes, I was.
Because Donovan would notice if I didn’t come, and I didn’t want him thinking I was avoiding the event. I didn’t want him to assume Weston’s upcoming wedding meant something to me, that I was hurt or nursing wounds. I wasn’t. I was there to prove a point, and I didn’t plan on leaving until I did.
Not that Donovan had bothered to show up.
Maybe the whole thing was a waste of time after all.
I took a swallow from my champagne glass and tried not to think about how the green of my dress perfectly matched the green of his eyes.
“Are you ready for Monday?” Roxie asked.
“I think so.” I’d been poring over the project files in all my spare time at home so I’d be prepared, barely sleeping. The movers had unpacked most of my belongings, but I hadn’t touched any of the personal items that I’d asked them to leave for me. “I’ve made sure I’m up to date on everything the team is working on.”
“Be careful you don’t burn out before you even start,” Roxie warned in her brusque Eastern European way.
“I won’t. Mom.” I was teasing, but I hoped she could tell I appreciated it. Not only because she was one of the only people I knew in the city, but also because it had been so long since I’d had anyone mother me. It was a nice change after all the years of raising my little sister.
She smiled and glanced over at her husband who was waiting a few feet away. After downing the rest of her drink in three long gulps, she said, “Frank hate these things. I would stay longer if he didn’t nag me to go. You be okay?” She seemed genuinely concerned about leaving me alone.
“Yes. I’m fine. I promise.” I could see her husband tapping his foot impatiently. “I’m just going to wish the couple well, and then I’m going too.”
It took a bit more reassurance, but finally I convinced her I’d be all right by myself.
After she left, I realized that standing in the corner felt more awkward alone. I looked around the nightclub. There was music playing, but it wasn’t the kind for dancing. All the guests were standing around in groups talking and munching on fancy appetizers. I didn’t recognize anyone. The few people I’d met at the office had already said hello and left. It was getting late, and Donovan still hadn’t arrived. There was no point in my sticking around. Either I needed to seek out Weston and give him my well wishes—the thought made me groan inwardly—or else I just needed to go.
I sighed and finished my drink. Then I placed it on a tray as a waiter walked past, and that’s when I felt it—felt him. Donovan. I didn’t turn around, but I could tell he was close behind me. I knew it as sure as I knew anything. His presence was as heavy and thick as molasses, and any intention I had of leaving was immediately thrown out the window. It would be impossible to leave now. I couldn’t wade through molasses in these heels.
But where was he? What was he waiting for?
Seconds passed by like hours, and finally he came up next to me, leaving no more than three inches, two maybe, between our shoulders. “The way that dress fits you…” he said, his voice husky. “I see now why Weston hired you.”
The grit in his tone felt like the perfect pumice stone, smoothing edges of me that had been rough for as long as I could remember.
But his actual words were a slap in the face.
Another fucking dig at my qualifications. As if the only reason I deserved to be at Reach was because I looked good in an evening gown.
And then there was the other reason his statement was problematic. Because it was wrong, and—even though it did things to my insides when he’d said it, made my belly tighten deep and low—I couldn’t let it slide by without addressing it. Once upon a time I would have let rich boys get away with shit like that. I had let rich boys get away with much worse. Not anymore.
I spun to face him, to tell him off and felt the wind slammed out of my lungs. He was so damn handsome in his tuxedo with satin lapels, his bow tie sharp and centered, his face still dusted with scruff. I nearly forgot what I was going to say.
I dragged my focus up from the tempting curve of his lips to his eyes, which were more green than brown tonight, and swallowed. “I’m not sure if you meant that as a compliment, but I am sure it’s sexual harassment.”
Donovan’s mouth lifted into a slow grin. “Oh, but sexual harassment used to be our thing.”
The acknowledgement of the past we’d shared knocked me off-balance. Made me dizzy. I hadn’t expected it, and it was a point for him in a game I wasn’t even sure how to play.
It was, on the other hand, the opening I needed to say the things—all the things, any of the things—if I could just figure out which to lead with. If I could just figure out how to speak at all.
But before I could manage to stop gaping like an idiot, Donovan leaned close and said quietly, “Close your mouth, Sabrina. Though I love imagining ways to fill it, we’re about to have company.” He straightened. Louder, he said, “Weston, Elizabeth. The stars of the show.”
My jaw clamped shut, my cheeks reddening as if I were harboring a flame inside my mouth.
In a daze, I twisted to find Weston with his arm wrapped around a young redhead with bright eyes and a big smile.
“Elizabeth, you know Donovan,” he said formally. “And this is Sabrina Lind, our new director of marketing strategy.”