Half the room stares. The other half—the half that knows him—takes a collective breath that sounds a lot like resignation. Beth closes her eyes briefly. Boone doesn’t look up from his drink. Brogan appears to be trying to remember if he’s legally responsible for anything Shep does at private events.
The Luxe regional manager looks at Derek.
Derek looks at the ceiling.
Shep works the room like he was born to it, which he essentially was. He gets to me in under two minutes, threading through clusters of people with the practiced ease of someone who has never once felt unwelcome anywhere.
“Captainette.” He takes both my hands, holds them out, looks me over with an expression of genuine warmth that occasionally surfaces beneath all the chaos when you least expect it. “You look incredible. The place looks incredible. I’m going to tell everyone I was here from the beginning.”
“You were here from the beginning.”
“I know, but now I have proof.” He grins. “Where’s my name on the banner?”
“It’s not on the banner.”
“Gisele. I emotionally supported this relationship for months. I started the betting pool. I asked the question that broke everything open.” He presses a hand to his chest. “I deserve at minimum a small placard.”
“I’ll get you a Post-it note.”
“I’ll take it.” He kisses my cheek, swipes two canapes from a passing tray in one smooth motion, and spins toward the room like a man with nowhere specific to be and all the time in the world to get there.
I watch him work, the way I always do—with the particular mix of exhaustion and affection that Shep inspires in everyone who’s known him longer than fifteen minutes. He’s charming the Luxe representatives now, Bennett’s teammates who came for the free food, Mrs. Henderson who will absolutely be telling everyone about this tomorrow.
Then he stops.
It’s so abrupt that the people nearest him notice. One moment he’s moving, all momentum and performance, and the next he’s completely still.
He’s found the photo display.
I set it up in the corner last week—a timeline of Glamboozled, five years of building something real. Opening day photos where I look terrified and twenty-three. Early clients who became regulars who became friends. The Luxe partnership announcement. Candid shots from the content shoots.
And one photo I almost didn’t include.
Someone from the Luxe team took it during an early shoot, months ago. It’s not staged—nobody knew it was happening. It’s just Bennett in the background, reflector panel in hand, watching me demonstrate a technique for the camera.
His expression is completely unguarded.
Pure, uncomplicated love. The kind that doesn’t know it’s being seen.
Shep looks at it for a long time. Long enough that Boone drifts over to see what’s caught his attention. Long enough that I start moving toward him without deciding to.
He doesn’t make a joke.
“Good,” he says quietly, to the photograph, to no one, to all of us. “I was getting tired of waiting.”
He stands there a moment longer, just looking. Then something settles in him—some private thing resolved—and he turns back to the room.
That’s when he sees Lynsie.
She’s working her way through the crowd with a tray of drinks, efficient and easy, laughing at something a client says. She’s been here since four, helping me set up because she’s Lynsie and she shows up without being asked and does whatever needs doing without making it a whole thing. Her hair is down tonight. She’s wearing a green blouse that I helped her pick out two weeks ago.
She looks up and finds Shep staring.
She looks him over once with the unhurried assessment of someone who has been looked at by Shep Sawyer before and has made her peace with finding it approximately twenty percent more appealing than she’d like. Then she goes back to the tray.
Shep’s expression does something I’ve only seen it do a handful of times in all the years I’ve known him.
It goes unguarded.
