Chapter Fifteen
“Mr. Black!” Lila Marquez, a prominent member of the Junior League of Boston and head of this event, rushes toward me as soon as I ease into her peripheral view outside the ballroom. “You came!”
“Good evening, Lila. You’re looking lovely as always.”
Lila smiles, a blush gracing her cheeks, and her eyelids flutter slightly.
“I’d like a ticket, please.”
“Mr. Black—”
“Braden, please.”
She blushes again. “Braden… Dinner’s over. We have dancing and the auction results, of course, but I’m afraid there aren’t any tables.”
“I don’t need a place at a table. Just a ticket to enter the event.”
“But you won’t—”
“Not a problem, I assure you. I only want to enter the event. There’s a…person inside I’d like to confer with.”
“Of course! You don’t need a reason. Go ahead in, Mr.— Braden.”
“I’m happy to pay for a ticket.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Then you’ll find a generous donation in your inbox Monday morning. Thank you
, Lila.” I whisk past her and enter the ballroom, scanning the dimly lit space for Skye.
A band is playing swing music, and quite a few couples are dancing. I recognize Skye’s bestie, @tessalolita. She’s wearing a red dress and dancing with Garrett Ramirez, a local architect whose firm, Reardon Brothers, put in a bid on my new building.
They won’t be getting it. I don’t like how that particular firm does business.
Skye. Where is Skye?
When I don’t locate her right away, I follow Bestie with my gaze as she and Garrett leave the dance floor. Bestie makes a beeline to—
Skye.
She sits at a table by herself. Bestie wipes her brow as she sits down next to Skye.
They chat, but of course I have no idea what they’re saying, as they’re across the room. Skye picks up a nearly full drink and downs it. Just like that.
Then my hackles rise.
Garrett Ramirez and another young architect, Peter Reardon, son of the boss, Beau Reardon, approach Skye’s table. The four of them head to the dance floor while I curl my hands into fists.
I could go cut in. Drag her away. Force her back into my bed. She may not even resist.
Instead, I watch from afar as she moves in that dress that hugs her body the way I want to be hugging it. Her smile seems pasted on, but still she dances, and she’s damned good on her feet, too. Who knew Skye Manning could swing?
Then again, why would I know? I just met the woman.
Four numbers.
Four fucking numbers I wait through—tempted to chew off my own arm to get out of this trap—before Skye finally leaves the dance floor.