9
BY THE TIME LAUREN MADE IT TO THE BALLROOM, HAIRcombed, dress straightened, ibuprofen swallowed, the event was well underway, and Alex was nowhere in sight.
Desiree paused and listened to someone speaking through her earpiece, murmuring something in response. Then she turned to Lauren. “I need to go, I’m afraid. Are you okay on your own?”
Lauren nodded. “Thank you for all your help.”
“No, thankyoufor making sure our guest of honor remained unscathed.” The publicist’s smile looked genuine. “Your table is at the front of the room, right in the center. A woman with a clipboard would normally check your name against the list for the VIP section, but I’m sure she knows who you are by now. You’re kind of a big deal.”
Lauren winced.
Her fame might be fleeting, but it was also unwelcome. She didn’t want scrutiny. For her own sake, but also to protect Alex’s privacy. No one outside the show needed to know she was serving as his minder.
“According to my assistant, the intruder is now at the police station, and officers there have your information if they need to get your statement. In the meantime, you shouldn’t have any more trouble, and if you do, just ask to speak to me.” Desiree shook Lauren’s hand. “Take care, Ms. Clegg, and I hope the rest of your evening is significantly less eventful.”
When the other woman strode away, Lauren followed at a more leisurely pace, allowing herself a moment to study her surroundings. The expansive ballroom was entirely filled with auction attendees, most of them already seated at the round tables dotting the space. Others still clustered near the silent auction pieces displayed at the back of the room, lined up for the open bar, or stood chatting in small, sparkly clumps of humanity. A small army of discreet servers wound between tables, offering hors d’oeuvres to the assembled crowd of people who were—in general—much wealthier and more beautiful than she was.
For a moment, her feet slowed almost to a stop, as her disorientation dizzied her.
Then the chandeliers overhead dimmed, and the chatter began to hush as stragglers returned to their tables and everyone in attendance turned their attention to the stage. Without further delay, Lauren hustled to her assigned spot, locating it without trouble. As promised, the clipboard-wielding woman near the front tables waved her along without a word, and Lauren sank at last into her cushioned seat with a sigh of relief. She’d made it in time, if only by seconds.
The other seats at her table were filled with familiar, famous faces. Carah Brown. Maria Ivarsson. Peter Reedton. A couple of other people she vaguely remembered from movie screens at her favorite local theater.
She didn’t pay them a bit of attention beyond a single glance, because she’d finally spotted Alex. He was walking beside Desiree and ascending the steps to the stage. Just a few words from him, and the publicist began laughing as she took her position at the edge of the platform. Because he was a natural-born charmer, that man. The Pied Piper of too-serious women.
He stood behind a lectern on the brilliantly lit dais, the microphone positioned perfectly for his height, his midnight suit sleek, his face and body beautiful enough to make her teeth ache.
He was brighter than any spotlight.
The wattage of his star power left afterimages behind her eyelids, and that was before he even opened his mouth.
“Good evening,” he said, voice rich and confident and amused. “I suspect you know who I am already, but if you don’t, please let me introduce myself. I’m Alexander Woodroe, and I play Cupid onGods of the Gates. If you haven’t seen the show, you likely think I fly around in a diaper for a living, but no. I save that for the weekends.”
The guests chuckled, attention rapt on him.
He cleared his throat, and that wicked smile faded. Gripping the edges of the lectern, he looked out over the audience. “I got involved with tonight’s charity five years ago, and there’s a reason I’ve put nearly all my efforts and donations into this one organization. They do good work. Real work. I’ve toured the shelters and offices, I’ve met their employees and clients, and before I ever joined their cause, my friend Marcus forced me to do my research.”
She frowned. WherewasMarcus?
“With his help, I made certain the organization ran as efficiently as possible, so any money donated could go as far as possible,” he told the sea of tables before him. “I also made sure they reached out to LGBTQIA+ women—especially trans women—and women of color, because we all know our most vulnerable communities often find themselves excluded from the support they desperately need and deserve.”
At that point, she began to calculate how much of a donation she could realistically afford, because Alex was a damn effective spokesperson for the charity.
He continued, “The workers are kind, and they treat their clients—abused women and children, people with urgent needs on so many levels—with respect. They—” From this close to the stage, she could see his throat bob as he swallowed. “Theylisten. Theypay attentionto what those women and children say, so they know how best to help. How to reach more people in need, and how to support those people in rebuilding lives free from violence.”
His knuckles were white with strain as he held on to the lectern.
“In our world, not—not everyone listens.” His voice—it cracked a bit. Wavered. “Not everyone pays enough attention.”
He looked down at the floor of the stage for a moment, silent, and Lauren couldn’t hear a single whisper of sound from the audience either. As a group, they seemed to be holding their breath as they watched him struggle with … something.
This was personal. She recognized guilt and grief when she saw it.
She wanted to rush up onstage and comfort him. Protect him, as yet another threat—this one invisible—tried to take him out at the knees tonight. But she was his minder, not his actual date. They’d known each other approximately eight days, and she had no right to demand his story, no right to offer herself as a bulwark against his pain.
He was a distant star in a midnight sky, and she could do nothing.
When he raised his head again, he flashed that sharp-edged, sardonic smile. “I mean, we’re Hollywood types, right? We’re self-absorbed. At least, I certainly am. I miss things. Even crucial things. Like, say, when I should stop drinking and leave a bar.”
