Page 19 of The Dinner Party

You’ve driven two hours to get here, so it would be ridiculous to turn back at this point. Besides, you really need the money. Going home isn’t an option.

So you get back in your car and drive through the iron gates.

They slam shut behind you with a sickening clang. It’s clear that you’re not going anywhere for the rest of the night. The gates are locked behind you.

The driveway to the front of the house is long and winding, but on the plus side, at least there’s no danger of falling off the mountain. You follow the path until you reach the large mansion. To the right of the house, there’s a paved area where about a dozen cars are parked—it seems that there’s quite the crowd at the dinner party tonight. You pull over beside the other cars.

You step out into the cold night air, shivering at a gust of wind that goes right through your coat. You hug your chest as you hurry in the direction of the front door. When you get there, you press the doorbell, which chimes loudly enough that you take a step back, startled.

A second later, the door to the house swings open.

A man is standing before you. He’s wearing a white dress shirt and white tie, paired with a black tailcoat and dress pants. He’s about your age, maybe in his early 20s, and he is startlingly handsome. He has thick hair that’s so blond, it’s nearly white, clear gray eyes, a hint of a cleft in his chin, and cheekbones to die for. You could stare at this man all night long. (All morning too…)

Whoa. Is this who you’re working for tonight? Avery should have led with this information. By the way, Sloan, your boss is a legit fox.

“Hello,” the man says in a deep voice that is, if possible, even more gorgeous than he looks.

“Hi,” you say in a squeaky voice that is not at all gorgeous. “I’m Sloan.”

“My name is Carson,” the man says. “I’m the butler for the Wentworth family. Won’t you come this way?”

Oh, he’s the butler. You suppose that makes more sense. Actually, that’s a good thing. Nobody who actually lives in this house would hook up with the likes of you. But you have a real shot with the butler.

Not that you should be thinking about such things. You’re here to do your job, earn your rent money, and get the hell out of here.

Although if there’s some downtime and Carson wants to make out with you, you wouldn’t have any objections.

Carson leads you into the house. You can hear Avery’s voice coming from another room, getting louder by the second. She’ll be here any moment now.

“Hey.” Carson’s voice is suddenly urgent as he grabs your arm, his gaze darting around the room. At first, you think he might want to kiss you, but instead, he leans in and hisses in your ear, “You are in danger.”

Turn to Chapter 34 (page 82)

34

You are in danger.

Carson’s words are ringing in your ears as Avery dashes out, wearing a black dress and white apron that matches Carson’s attire, her red hair pinned back from her face. When she sees you, she throws her arms around you like you haven’t seen each other in years.

“Sloan!” she cries. “I’m so glad you could make it! I don’t know what we would’ve done if you hadn’t come!”

That seems extreme. They simply would have had to make do with one waitress. It’s not like the entire party is hanging on your presence. Avery can be so dramatic.

“It was a rough drive,” you say, “but I’m here.”

Avery links her arm into yours. “Let me introduce you to the hosts and some of the guests. They will be thrilled to meet you.”

They will? It’s been your experience that most people aren’t that excited to meet the wait staff at a party, but some rich people are very eccentric.

Carson is just standing there, his back straight, his face expressionless. You are in danger. Did he really say that to you? It feels almost as if you might have imagined the whole thing. You certainly don’t feel like you’re in any danger. This is just a party for a bunch of old rich people—what danger could you possibly be in?

“What sort of party is this, anyway?” you ask Avery as she drags you into another room.

“It’s a dinner club,” she explains. “They call themselves the Adventurous Eaters Club. They eat all sorts of exotic animals, apparently.”

“Exotic animals? Like what?”

“Oh, you know.” She shrugs. “Like ostrich or something.”