“Hey, Grandma, how are you doing?” Our calls are a daily ritual. We usually chat in the morning, but the nursing home had the doctor visiting.
“Still alive,” she says—her usual response. “And you? Going to that gala?”
“I am. Getting ready now, actually. What did you do today?”
“Nothing interesting,” she says, then pauses. “Are you sure it’s a good idea?”
My cheeks warm. “Of course it is. Baptiste is a nice guy. He’s just—”
“Not because of him,” she cuts in. “Although now you’ve got me curious. No, I’m talking about those charity galas. Always ripe for scandals.”
I pinch my lips together. I’m not going to lie—that did cross my mind when Baptiste mentioned it. Galas are the perfect setting for loose lips and spilled secrets. Friendly, relaxed, everyone has something to drink, and all the guests are dishing out gossip. And don’t get me started on the restrooms: a journalist’s gold mine.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I know the rules of my probation.”
But if I literally stumble on something fishy, you best believe I’ll keep that in my back pocket for when I’m back in the field.
She seems satisfied with my answer, and we go on to chit-chat about her day—she mostly complains about the other residents, how noisy they are, and the fact that they’re always whining about the cost of life or politics—until it’s time for me to finish getting ready.
When I hang up, I rush to finish my makeup. I’m supposed to meet Baptiste in less than ten minutes. I find a bracelet, put on some lipstick, spritz myself with perfume, and head downstairs.
He’s already there waiting when the elevator doors open, and it’s like I’m hit with a gust of wind that nearly bowls me over. He’s wearing a dark green tuxedo that matches his eyes, which may as well be magnets. The way they trap me as I walk toward him is unfair.
His lips part, and he does a double take. “Wow. You look great, Harper.”
I swallow, not daring to look straight into his vortex eyes. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”
“Shall we?” he asks, offering his arm.
And even if I really don’t want to take it, I slip my arm into his. Forget his eyes. His whole body is one big magnet.
He has a car waiting to take us to the charity event.
“Not because I can’t drive myself,” he explains defensively as we slide into the back. “Or because I like being chauffeured around. But there’s no parking near the venue, and I thought it’d be easier—and safer—to bedropped off.”
I smile, glancing at him. “No need to justify yourself. It makes perfect sense.”
He arches his eyebrows. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea. Thinking that I’m some kind of spoiled celebrity, for example.”
I shake my head and laugh. “Nah, you’re good. You’ve shown me nothing but the contrary.”
“Phew,” he says exaggeratedly, sinking into his seat.
We might be joking around, but I mean it. He and his friends are far from the out-of-touch celebrities I was expecting.
The driver weaves through the streets of DC before finally stopping in front of an old white stone building, Greek-style columns towering over the entrance.
As soon as we enter the venue, a hostess greets us. Baptiste gives his name, and we’re escorted into a large ballroom bathed in soft blue and green lights, abstract ocean-themed art projected onto the walls. Glass sculptures shaped like waves rest on pedestals, and framed photographs of marine life line the perimeter. In the center, long tables display items for a silent auction, each accompanied by neatly printed descriptions.
A waiter passing by gets us some drinks, and we start browsing the silent auction items.
Each is more impressive than the next. There’s a week-long stay on a research vessel, some art pieces, a signed guitar from a famous musician, a yacht, or a private helicopter tour of the coast. Next up are a custom surfboard painted by a local artist, theater tickets tothe new Auston Buckley and Carolina Stance show, and a luxury weekend at an eco-resort overlooking the Pacific.
“I’m guessing the season tickets are yours?” I ask, glancing at Baptiste.
“I’m so transparent, aren’t I?” He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “But yeah, every time one of us goes to a charity event, we try to pitch in.”
“Do you also bid?”
