Chapter
Thirty-Six
Decker
* * *
The Langham does events right, I’ll give them that.
The ballroom has been transformed into what Penelope envisioned—from round tables with low centerpieces so guests can actually see each other across the table, to the stage lit in warm lights instead of harsh white ones, and the sponsors’ signage tastefully dotted throughout the space so that it doesn’t look like a trade show.
She’s good at this.
As I look at her across the space, a selfish part of me hopes that when she slid her gorgeous body into the black dress she’s wearing, it was with a big fuck you to me in mind. If so, it’s working.
We’ve been cordial for two weeks. Ever since the night she walked out of my condo. Cordial is what she asked for, and that’s what I’ve given her. Our texts are professional, and other than one brief conversation full of pleasantries at Hayes and Leighton’s place when I didn’t leave fast enough after Hazel’s hula hoop lesson, there’s been nothing else.
Being cordial with her is more exhausting than last week’s back-to-back away series. Add on the latest therapy session with Foster and my mind is a jumble even the most genius psychologist couldn’t unravel.
At my table are sponsors, two season ticket holders and their wives, Easton, and the woman he brought as his date. I didn’t bother with a plus one because there’s no one I’d rather bring than Penelope.
I already checked, and she’s at a table across the way, so I figure I’ll eat my dinner and stick around for a half hour before I sneak out.
“Penelope,” Easton says, looking up at her standing at the table’s edge.
I’m talking to one of the season ticket holders, who is being polite and telling me how stupid the Colts will be if they don’t sign me for next year.
“Do you guys mind if I join you? Someone didn’t RSVP for their spouse at my table, and I know this table had an opening.”
“Course not, come on over here.” Martin Caulfield, a commercial real estate guy, stands and pulls out the chair for her.
“Thank you.”
Pen taking the seat next to Martin puts her right across the table from me.
Now that I think about it, I wish she’d chosen higher centerpieces.
“Goldie, you good?” Easton has one arm swung over the back of his date’s chair and the other holding his glass.
“Fine.” I pick up my drink, looking over the rim of my glass, but Penelope looks everywhere but at me.
Martin Caulfield is in his mid-fifties and conveys the confidence of someone who has written enough checks to the Colts that he thinks he pays our salaries when, in reality, he probably pays for our snacks in the dugout. But he thinks he’s entitled to every perk they’re willing to give him.
Needless to say, I dislike him.
A lot.
He turns his body toward Penelope, not paying attention to anyone else at the table.
She smiles graciously and stays professionally polite, while he keeps leaning in a little closer.
Out of your league, man.
“Goldie, you’re looking a little red there.” Easton’s smirk is prominent.
“I’m fine.”
Now Pen’s angled slightly away from Martin without making it obvious. Good girl.
