Because I’m angry, I tell myself. Outraged. Incensed.
That’s the only explanation for the tightness in my stomach. The dizziness in my head. The sweatiness of my palms.
…The heat between my legs.
Damn.
“Listen, buddy,” I snap, intensifying my glare for good measure. “If you’re not going to take an edamame ball, you really have to let me by. I have work to do.”
And, I remember alarmingly, a very narrow window of time to get my intel which, thanks to this little interlude, is now even shorter.
His eyes drop to my tray and his face screws up in a grimace. “Honestly, are those even edible?”
“Don’t know, don’t care. Now, move out of my way or I will make you move.”
His eyes light up in anticipation, like a puppy offered a treat. “Promise?”
My only response is another withering glare.
“Fine, fine.” He chuckles as he holds up his hands in surrender. “My ego has been bruised enough.”
I step past him and this time he doesn’t stop me. As I walk away, though, he calls out loud enough to draw the gazes of several surrounding party-goers.
“So, that’s a no on the thank-you parade, then?”
I don’t look back, but I can feel his eyes on me the whole way to the doors. I pretend not to notice the smile tugging at my lips and the swirl of unwanted butterflies in my stomach as I slip into the kitchens and out of sight.
* * *
“Twenty minutes, people, then you need to be back here and ready to serve the main course.” Miriam sounds like the green-scaled dinosaur lady from Monster’s Inc. and, actually, bears a slight resemblance to her if you look close enough. “If you’re going to smoke, you’ll have to take the elevator up to the roof.” She glances at the clock. “Time starts now.”
The group of twelve cater-waiters disperses faster than high schoolers at a cop-busted kegger.
Mara looks at me, a box of cigarettes clasped tight in her hand. “You coming?”
I shake my head. “Don’t smoke.”
“I’m quitting. Just… not tonight.” A sheepish grin lights up her whole face. “See you in a few.”
I wait until everyone’s cleared out, then hustle through the side door and beeline for the small women’s bathroom at the end of the hall. The event is almost entirely male businessmen, so it’s blessedly deserted — marking, perhaps, the only time in my life I’ve ever been thankful for that pesky glass ceiling the female CEOs smacked into when hoping for an invitation to this shindig. The handful of women actually in attendance are all using the fancy ballroom bathrooms, not trekking down the hall in their Manolos to this one. I should be totally under the radar, here.
Flipping the deadbolt behind me, I pull open the cabinets beneath the sink, push aside several bottles of cleaning products, and slide out the black backpack I stashed inside earlier. In less than a minute, I’ve shimmied out of the god-awful uniform and into a tight-fitting black ball gown with whisper-thin straps, a lace bodice, and a flared hem which falls just far enough to conceal my flats. Without letting myself consider the ramifications of this monumentally stupid plan, I shove the uniform into the backpack along with the itchy black wig, zip it closed, and stash it out of sight in the cabinet.
I hate wasting a few precious moments on my hair, but it can’t be helped. There’s a lot of it, and after being stuffed beneath the wig for two hours, it’s flat and frizzy. I run my fingers under the tap for a moment, then work them the through the blonde mane to give it a little life. Scraping the pile into an up-do, I fasten it with a pretty tortoiseshell clip barely wide enough to contain the riot of waves. One swipe of lipstick is all I bother with for makeup. Staring at the blonde, blue eyed girl in the mirror, I pinch my cheeks for added color and examine my disguise. Not perfect, but good enough.
It has to be — there’s no more time to waste.
I duck out of the bathroom a moment later looking entirely different from the pale, dark-haired waiter who entered. From a distance, no one will recognize me. And if I’m caught, chances are a security guard will be much more lenient with a pretty party guest than a rogue member of the wait staff. It’s a hell of a lot easier to flirt your way out of a jam dressed in BCBG couture than a unisex button-down.
Moving on silent feet down the dimly lit hall, I scan door numbers as I pass.
4017
4020
4023
Copy room, storage room, conference room. All useless to me.
I keep going, growing more nervous the farther from the reception I get. Minutes tick by on my watch, taunting me like a child’s hide-and-go-seek countdown.
Thirteen.
Twelve.
Eleven.
I finally spot what I’m looking for at the end of the hall. My pace increases as I hurry to it.