“What’s the plan?”
“We hit up the benefit. Let you toss some money around. Choke down the disgusting food. Then you and me, we hit up something actually filling on the way home.”
“That sounds perfect,” I agreed as alarm bells went off in my head about how much I liked his use of the word ‘home’ there.
“Do you have a gown already?” he asked. “Or do we need to squeeze a shopping trip in today?”
“I don’t have one that I haven’t worn already,” I admitted. “But I might just have Cam pick me out some options. He has a better eye for evening wear than I do,” I said, reaching for my phone.
“What?” Brock asked when I smiled down at my phone a moment later.
“Cam. He was already at the store, snapping pictures of options.”
“Have you ever taken him?”
“The year before last. While he loved the venue and the drinks, he was miserable. Cam likes aspects of wealth, like the nice shoes and the good champagne, but he has no use for a lot of the stuffiness.”
“I was once forced to sit through an hour-and-a-half discussion about yacht repair,” Brock said.
“Exactly. It can definitely be dry. If I have to listen to one more person talk about golf, I might strain my eyes from trying not to roll them.”
“Why is it always golf?” Brock asked, shaking his head. “They could do any other sport, but they choose golf?”
“I think it is sport-lite and business-heavy,” I said. “I remember someone advising me when I was really starting to get some success that I should invest in a membership at a very exclusive club just to rub shoulders with the ultra-rich. As much as I was desperate for connections those days, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”
“Probably for the best. It’s still such a boys-only type atmosphere. You’d have been constantly hit on.”
“That was part of my thinking as well,” I agreed.
“What time is the benefit?” he asked.
“Eight.”
“But you don’t want to get there at eight.”
“No, I do not,” I agreed. “Eight twenty to be there. So leave here at ten after.”
“I’ll be ready,” he told me.
I guess I just hadn’t been prepared forhowready he would be.
I figured he had a suit. Any man who made it to his thirties had better have a suit.
But this wasn’t just any suit.
This was the to-the-book black-tie-affair suit.
A single-breasted black dinner jacket made out of barathea with silk peaked lapels and covered buttons. Under that was a white marcella evening shirt with bib detail and double cuffs and pricey-looking cufflinks. The pants had a nice taper, neither too tight nor too loose, and his black shoes looked shiny and in good shape.
The bowtie was where most men screwed up.
It was always too small or too wide, making their heads look disproportionate.
But Brock nailed the bowtie as well.
In fact, he actually looked good in it. Which was not an easy feat.
“Wow,” Brock said when he sensed me standing there, and turned to look.