Jack is making his way through the crowd, navigating the sea of designer wear with the ease of someone who absolutely belongs here. His eyes lock with mine, his whole face lights up.
He looks absolutely incredible in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that fits him like it was made specifically for his body. Because it probably was. No tie, just an open collar that somehow makes the formal outfit look effortlessly cool rather than underdressed. More than a few heads turn as he passes by.
I’m suddenly aware of exactly how many people are watching him, and by extension will be watching me. The girlfriend. The small-town bartender playing dress-up in the big city. What was I thinking agreeing to this?
But as Jack approaches, his smile widening with what looks like genuine pleasure at seeing me, some of that anxiety starts to recede like a tide going out. There’s something reassuring about having him as an anchor in this sea of strangers and wealth.
“Hey,” he says when he reaches me, immediately leaning in to kiss my cheek. His lips are warm against my skin, and his cologne—expensive and woodsy with hints of citrus—is makingmy head spin. Then he stays close, his mouth near my ear. “You look incredible.”
The way he says it, low and rough, sends heat straight through me.
“Thanks.” I fidget with my clutch, trying to ignore how my whole body just lit up from his proximity. Damn, he looks good in that suit.Like, make-me-want-to-do-stupid-things good.“You clean up pretty well yourself.”
“This old thing?” he jokes, just as he had on our date at the coffee shop, running a hand along the sleeve of his suit with a grin. “Had it lying around in my closet.”
“I’m sure you did,” I reply dryly, grateful for his attempt to ease my nerves even while I’m fighting the urge to run my hands over his chest. “So this is your world, huh?”
Jack laughs, his hand settling on the small of my back. “Well this is the sponsor side of things. The corporate side is a whole different game. Wait till you see an actual race day. Energy drinks instead of champagne, deafening engines, less pretension.”
“I’ll stick with the champagne tonight,” I say.
“Ready to mingle? Robert’s been asking where you are.”
I take his offered arm, the hard muscle under the suit not helping my situation. “As ready as I’ll ever be. Who exactly is here tonight? I need to mentally prepare for the types of conversations I’m about to fake my way through.”
“A mix of people,” he begins guiding me further into the room, his hand warm against my arm. “Racing industry people, Callahan executives, local Seattle business elite, some media. The usual corporate event crowd.”
“Just follow my lead,” he continues. “And remember, you belong here as much as anyone else in this room.”
I give him a skeptical look. “I’m pretty sure that’s false. My car is literally held together with duct tape, Jack.”
“You’re my girlfriend,” he says, lowering his voice. “That means you have a place here.” He squeezes my arm. “Besides, half these people are pretending to belong too. That’s the secret, everyone’s faking it to some degree.”
“Well, at least I’m in good company for faking things,” I murmur, and he laughs, drawing glances our way. I shouldn’t enjoy making him laugh this much. It’s becoming a problem.
A waiter passes and Jack smoothly snags two champagne flutes, handing me one. “Anyway, brace yourself. Robert will want to meet you, and he’s…”
“What?” I take a larger sip than appropriate. “Scary? Judgmental? A vampire who feeds on unsuccessful souls?”
“Direct,” Jack says, mouth twitching. “He doesn’t waste words. Just remember he’s been intimidating people since before we were born. It’s his hobby. Possibly his superpower.”
“So reassuring.” I take another fortifying sip, the bubbles tickling my nose.
We stop to chat with several people, a racing team manager who asks detailed technical questions, a sleek marketing executive who compliments my dress, a journalist Jack seems to know well who asks a few questions about our relationship.
“Jack! There you are.” A silver-haired man in an impeccable navy suit appears in front of us suddenly, cocktail in hand. His posture screams authority and power, shoulders back, chin up, and his eyes, sharp and assessing, immediately move from Jack to me with the focus of someone who misses nothing. “And this must be Lark.”
I straighten instinctively under his scrutiny, my spine going rigid. This must be Robert Callahan himself, the man who’s been sponsoring Jack since he was a child.
Jack’s hand presses slightly firmer against my back, a silent reassurance that grounds me. “Robert, this is Lark Reyes. Lark, Robert Callahan.”
I extend my hand, pleased to find it steady. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Callahan. This is quite an impressive event.”
Robert’s handshake is firm, the handshake of someone with absolutely nothing to prove because everyone already knows his power. “The pleasure is mine, Ms. Reyes. So, Jack mentioned you’re a musician?”
“I am,” I say, meeting his gaze directly and refusing to look away first.
“Interesting.” He sips his drink, studying me. “Difficult industry. Competitive.”
