Oh, well. They may be together, but at least they’re not in the linen closet. I suppose that’s some small consolation.
“For those who don’t know me, I’m Elizabeth Ashby, and I’m the chairperson of this year’s Fight For Hope.”
Great. Now I can put a name to the too-perfect face. Elizabeth. She strikes me as the type who demands to be called by her full name. No Liz. Or Lizzie. Or Beth.
I move closer to the stage, handing out sandwiches as I go.
“I want to thank everyone for coming tonight,” call-me-by-my-full-name Elizabeth continues. “And for opening your pocketbooks for a worthy cause. With your help, there’s hope that someday we’ll win the fight against ALS. And no one’s more invested in that fight than the man up on stage with me tonight, Connor Dow.”
She motions for him to join her, and he does.
“Connor lost his mother to ALS, and over the years he’s continued to donate to the search for a cure. Personally, he’s given over a million dollars. And later this year, he’s allowing us to use his nightclub, Top Shelf, for our biggest, most ambitious fundraiser yet. So tonight, we’d like to present him with this plaque that commemorates his long-standing commitment to ALS research.”
She hands the plaque to Connor, then the microphone. He clears his throat and starts to speak.
“Thank you, Elizabeth, and thank you to all the members of Fight For Hope’s board of directors for giving me this honor. But it’s really the health care workers and researchers on the front lines, treating patients and working toward a cure, who deserve to be up here tonight. I accept this award on their behalf and in memory of my mother and everyone who has battled this progressive, debilitating disease.”
Okay, now I feel like a total asshat. Me and my dirty mind. He’s getting an award for philanthropy—trying to help cure the disorder that killed his mother, for fuck’s sake—not sneaking around for a quick hookup.
The audience applauds, and Connor hands the microphone back to Elizabeth. Then he looks out over the crowd. His eyes skate past me then flick back, confused. I can tell the moment the pieces click into place and recognition sets in.
He says something to Elizabeth before descending the stairs at the center of the stage, heading straight for me. My palms itch and the hair at back of my neck stands on end. Now he wants to talk? When I’m at work? With the crème de la crème of New York society listening in?
No. Freaking. Way.
My tray’s empty again, so I decide to retreat to the kitchen for another refill. I get about halfway there when Lloyd—that’s definitely his name, I remember now—stops me. “Code Red. I need you on champagne cocktails. One of the other servers had to leave. Family emergency.”
He says the last two words like they’re causing him actual, physical pain. And just like that, I see my my escape-to-the-kitchen plan fading before my eyes.
“What about Tiffany? Can’t she do cocktails?”
“Tiffany’s not standing in front of me with an empty tray. You are. So head over to Derrick—” He points to a bartender at one of the stations ringing the room. “—and have him stock you up so you can make the rounds.”
I glance over my shoulder. Connor’s gaining on me. I need to end this conversation. Stat. Maybe I can lose him on my way to the bar.
“Right. I’m on it.”
I make it over to Derrick and he’s almost got my tray all loaded before Connor catches up to me. Probably because people keep stopping him to congratulate him on his award. He’s like a rock star to this crowd. Not that I blame them. A million dollars is pretty damn impressive. At some point, I’ll tell him as much. When I’m not pissed off at him for choosing here and now to end his self-imposed radio silence.
“Brie,” he says, leaning on the bar rail next to me. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
I don’t look at him, keeping my attention on Derrick as he adds another glass of champagne to my tray. “We’re roommates, not BFFs. We don’t have to tell each other where we’re going or what we’re doing.”
I keep my voice light so he doesn’t suspect how much the awkwardness between us has been bothering me. Because yeah, it’s bugged me. No woman wants to be kissed by a man like he means it, then ignored like she’s yesterday’s leftovers.
“But—I’m confused.” He pushes his sexy-but-shouldn’t-be thick-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I thought you were an actress, filming a TV show. And you’re here. Working as a waitress.”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I am an actress. And a waitress. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”
“I realize that. It’s just that Jake said—”
Of course. Jake. It always comes back to my big brother, doesn’t it? He’s like an omnipresent shadow, looming between us.
I grab my tray and glare at Connor over the rims of the champagne flutes. “Whatever he had to say about my career path, I don’t particularly care. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to get back to my job. The waitressing one, that is.”
In my rush to end this uncomfortable conversation in the quickest way possible, I make a rookie mistake—turning around without looking first, full tray in hand. Until I run smack dab into a distinguished looking older gentleman, and it goes crashing to the floor, the sound of breaking glass almost deafening.
Heat rushes to my face as I bend down to start cleaning up the mess I’ve made. I’m not normally so careless. Or so clumsy.
