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She huffed. “Well, if you’re finished getting your period, can we go do our jobs now?”
Our jobs, of course.
Fuck my life.
* * *
I followed Tara out of the swinging door and into the room, keeping my gaze straight ahead.
Still, it didn’t stop me from watching him out of the corner of my eye.
Them.
Blake and Brittany.
They sat slightly angled toward one another, his arm still draped over the back of her chair. As I drew closer, I noticed they chatted to other people seated at their table, laughing and joking as if they were all old friends.
Blake looked completely at ease with a playful expression on his face, the same one I’d witnessed so many times during the summer. The tailored, crisp white shirt and dinner jacket molded to his broad shoulders. He looked good in a tux.
Too good.
His hair was shorter, styled to perfection, and even the scruff covering his jaw that I’d come to love over the summer was gone.
If I thought camp Blake was a stranger, I barely recognized this version of him.
No one looked up as I approached the table. Not even a cursory glance. As if I was nothing. Insignificant… Invisible.
I sure felt it.
Working quickly, I collected the empty plates from each guest’s left side. I risked the occasional glance over at Blake and Brittany. They were in conversation with the woman seated at Brittany’s other side, who I assumed was her mother.
Blake smiled at something she said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. It was such a simple gesture, but it caused the air to suck right from my lungs.
I realized then that this wasn’t all some dreadful mistake. A production crew wasn’t about to burst out from hiding and announce that this was all part of some elaborate prank.
No, the truth was staring me right in the face—Blake wasn’t just with these people… he was one of them.
A wave of nausea slammed into me, and I stumbled backward. The stack of plates balanced in my hand wobbled, and a knife rolled off the edge and clattered to the floor.
Ten faces glared at my incompetence, but I didn’t see them; I only saw two inky blue eyes filled with shock and horror.
We remained staring at one another for longer than we should have.
Long enough to earn a confused look from Brittany as she tried to piece together how Blake could possibly know someone like me—the hired help.
She laid a hand on his arm, commanding his attention, and I used the moment to collect the remaining plates and get the hell out of there.
* * *
I stood with the other servers watching Anthony Weston deliver his opening speech.
His presence didn’t live up to the rumors. He wasn’t just formidable; he was terrifying. A tall, well-built man with a thick head of salt and pepper hair, he spoke with such poise and command that not a single sound could be heard.
Guests raised a toast, clinking their glasses when required, but when Mr. Weston spoke, every single person in the room listened.
“Now that the formalities are out of the way,” he said, “I have one last announcement to make before I hand you over to our host for the evening, Mike Carter.
“As some of you know, seven years ago, I discovered I had a nephew…”
