Tavey lights up. “Thank you!”
The woman points at me. “Especially you. Most men would’ve chickened out.”
Tavey looks inordinately pleased by this. “See? Validation.”
I incline my head gravely. “I stand corrected.”
The woman moves on, and Tavey whispers, “You really do look amazing.”
The softness in her voice cuts deeper than the compliment from a stranger.
I look away first.
“Come on,” I mutter. “Let’s find you a goblet.”
The reception space is set up in a huge open hall with white beams, chandeliers, and a dance floor already filling up with early arrivals. There are long tables arranged family-style, centerpieces of candles and dark flowers, and enough dramatic drapery to satisfy even Tavey’s exacting standards.
She turns in a slow circle, taking it all in. “This is so extra.”
“You say that like it’s a compliment.”
“It is absolutely a compliment.”
A server passes with a tray of blue cocktails in coupe glasses, each one topped with a twist of candied citrus and what looks like edible glitter.
Tavey makes a delighted noise. “Perfect. I’ll take six.”
I snag one from the tray and hand it to her. “Start with one.”
She takes it carefully, the dragon clutch dangling from her wrist. “You’re weirdly bossy for a barbarian warlord.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
She laughs, then takes a sip. Her eyes widen. “Oh, this is dangerous.”
I take that as my cue to grab something simpler for myself off a passing tray.
We drift farther into the room, stopping every few feet because someone wants to say hello. Mostly people she knows better than I do—design, product, one of the HR managers. Tavey talks to everyone with the same bright enthusiasm, introducing me when needed as though there’s any universe where people at FMJ don’t know who I am.
Watching her outside the office is strange in the best way.
At work, she’s warm and funny, sure. But this version of her is looser. More openly animated. Like seeing a color I didn’t realize had shades.
At one point she gets distracted by the seating chart, which has apparently been styled to look like a royal decree. She tugs me with her toward it and stands close enough that her shoulder brushes my arm as she scans the names.
“We’re at table nine,” she says. “With some of Geeta’s relatives, a couple of people from R&D and”—she gives an exaggerated wince—“Devon.”
I grunt.
She looks over, her expression between amused and wary. “You don’t sound thrilled.”
“I’m not.”
She slants me a look. “You don’t like Devon?”
