Page 16 of Go Back to December

Panic must be bleeding onto my face, because Baz withdraws like I’ve got something contagious. The music is loud and piercing, and I need to escape, get some air, which I must say out loud, because Baz spins on a heel and paces several steps, forcing the nearby Money Honeys to retreat. He tilts his head to the deck, like he’s shoveled a path through the snow and it’s all clear.

The other side of the tent is quieter, and the draft from the crack in the corner cools the fire on my cheeks. Baz whips out his phone and peers at the reception gallery, where Dooley’s flashing a wide smile at a gaggle of older people who appreciate form over function.

“There’s a group waiting. You ready?”

I can’t move. Moving would be an endorsement of this insanity. “What is this? Another half-assed apology to appease your guilt? Do you feel guilty about any of this?”

“You want to meet these people or not? I get why you wouldn’t.” He smirks. “Hustling really isn’t in your wheelhouse.”

I bark a laugh. “Like you’re remotely aware of what I’m capable of.”

His teeth flash. “I have a fair idea.”

If it were anyone else, this would be verbal foreplay. My body can’t tell the difference, because it’s heating and trembling in all the usual places. I nervously adjust the tie at my waist to ensure I’m contained.

“Stop fidgeting with your dress. You look perfect.”

It’s a compliment. An intentional one. There isn’t a hint of sarcasm in his tone, and my lips part in disbelief.

Is it possible Baz regrets throwing the café under the belt-tightening bus? It would be tremendously inconvenient for him to find a new breakfast spot if we folded, but it’s not much of an explanation for how he’s behaving. “Why are you helping us?”

Baz holds my gaze for an uncomfortable moment, while he makes some weighty decision that results in him shaking his head. “If you want to meet these people, then follow me. If you don’t, stay.”

Marching ahead to the gallery, he walks up to two impeccably dressed older women, and a man wearing a silk blazer with a cravat, a bold fashion choice for an office party. Their faces brighten. Baz shakes hands and kisses cheeks. Gentleman Johnson at work.

The Moneys are smiling and laughing in that schooled manner of professional functions. When they all swivel and deliberately look in my direction with warm curiosity, Baz has piqued their attention while simultaneously skewering me by putting me at the center of it.

I’d admire his mastery if it didn’t make me want to cut off his balls.

It’s tempting to ignore whatever this gesture is supposed to be, but I won’t decline help. Too many people depend on me playing this part to protect them. And I won’t let Baz fuel my failure.

As I cross into the gallery, head held high with false confidence, two things happen.

First, the bright display lighting exposes the dark circles beneath Baz’s eyes. His usually perfect hair is ruffled. Most people wouldn’t notice, but I see Baz every day. Something is off.

I don’t have time to linger over it. When I draw close enough to inhale his delicious Christmas scent, Baz smiles.

It’s not that forced grin he gives me when I’ve assuaged a complaint about the doneness of his eggs or the spots on his fork. Nor is it that Sphinx-like expression he paints on for work.

This smile is something real. Wide and white and dazzling.

Baz makes introductions. I don’t remember anyone’s name because I’m too blinded by that smile and the echo of You look perfect reverberating through my brain. I hardly register when Baz murmurs his polite excuses and smoothly withdraws.

Our collective attention follows his path back across the deck, to the semicircle of men surrounding Denny Blackhart.

“Poor man. Whatever’s going on there can’t be much fun,” one woman remarks. “Now, Melanie. We’re dying to talk about the charity kitchen.”

“Oh, we’re not a charity.” I avoid correcting her about my name and try to keep a level tone. “The café is a social enterprise.”

The woman exchanges a confused glance with the man in the cravat.

“I think it sounds perfect,” the other woman says after a draw on her martini. “The University Club debutantes are looking for a beneficiary for this year’s ball. This location is ideal for them to complete their volunteer service hours. A much safer spot than the women’s shelter.”

“Yes, well,” I stammer. “The thing is, we don’t usually offer volunteer—”

“They already have a charity benefit!” the cravat exclaims. “Something with orphans.”

“Oh, that’s right,” the first woman agrees. “Alicia Leary arranged it.”