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“How unfortunate.” Trent frowns. “Ms. Lee always brings a certain type offlairto these occasions. Please tell her that her absence was felt, Charlotte.”
“I will.”
“Having said that, I’m sure you will find plenty of familiar faces here tonight,” he adds nonchalantly.
“Oh, really? Who?” Lottie asks, intrigued.
“Well, for one, Lawrence Preston III is here. I was under the impression you two were close friends,” Trent says, darting his sight across the room to a guy in a fancy-ass tuxedo—one that doesn’t look rented like mine—with none other than Agnes McDonald standing closely at his side, talking animatedly while he stares at his watch, counting the seconds until she gets the hint that he’s not interested.
I’ve been there, buddy.
Poor bastard.
“Something like that,” Lottie retorts, not giving anything away.
Hmm.
If I were to guess, this Lawrence Preston III isn’t a friend but rather one of Lottie’s clients.
That would explain why Agnes is here with him.
I wonder if Lottie has gone out on dates with him, too?
No.
A guy like that doesn’t need any help with charming a date.
The size of his wallet does all the talking for him.
“Well, enjoy your evening tonight. And Wilder?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Good game today. Keep doing what you’re doing. It’s working for you,” Trent says before retreating and disappearing into the crowd.
Lottie’s stiff shoulders relax the minute he’s out of view.
“Is it my imagination, or do you not like the GM?” I ask curiously when she chugs the rest of her champagne in one gulp.
“Honestly, I’m not sure what to make of him, but there is just something about him that I can’t put my finger on.”
“Yeah. It’s called having a stick up his ass,” I joke.
The way she can’t help but giggle at my description of Trent makes me crack my first smile since we got here.
“Ah, there you are.” She grins widely. “I was wondering when I’d see you again.”
“What are you talking about? I’ve been right here standing beside you all night.”
“No. The guy I’ve spent the night with wasn’t the real you. He was a moody grump.”
“Sounds like me.” I shrug.
“No. That’s just a wall you put up to keep people at bay,” she insists. “It’s not the real you.”
“No? Then who am I, really?”
“The real you is sweet and attentive,” she explains passionately. “He doesn’t bark anytime someone asks him a question. At least not with me.” She frowns.
