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The activity and energy level of the house staff builds as the day goes on and peaks just before seven o’clock, when the first guests arrive. Mom answers the door and takes their coats before ushering them into the ballroom. It’s beautifully lit with a soft yellow glow, and the wet bar along one wall is fully stocked, with a professional bartender on duty.
I really wish I could escape upstairs for the actual party—I’m exhausted from cleaning all day, and I’m not the most social person under regular circumstances, which these definitely aren’t. But my mom needs help, and I want to support her, so I stay downstairs and help wrangle and greet guests.
The entire Black family is fashionably late to their own party, and when they do arrive, it’s with all the fanfare of royalty on parade. They converge on the upstairs balcony as if they synchronized their watches down to the second, then make their way down the stairs as a unit.
Mr. and Mrs. Black are arm in arm, and I almost do a double-take to be sure it’s really them. They’re both dressed like they’re headed to the Oscars, Samuel in a perfectly tailored tuxedo and Audrey in a deep maroon evening gown that drapes from one shoulder and has a two-foot train. I’ve never seen them this dressed up before, but that’s not what catches my attention.
No, it’s the way they’re looking at each other.
Like they’re… in love.
Maybe that shouldn’t be strange in a married couple, but for these two, it’s definitely unusual. On a regular day, there seems to be a wall between them; they might kiss or hug, but even those actions seem stilted, formal, and forced.
Now, though? She looks up at him and her eyes sparkle, a soft smile curving her lips. She doesn’t look as dazed as usual either, so maybe she skipped her daily dose of Prozac. But why would that make her seem happier?
Those questions fly from my mind when the two of them step off the stairs and turn toward the ballroom, leaving me a clear view of Lincoln, who’s been following several paces behind them.
Holy… wow.
As annoying as it is to admit, Lincoln Black is a stunningly hot boy. I’ve been drawn to him from the second I got here, despite all the protests of my rational mind. He usually dresses casually, in clothes that are obviously expensive but not flashy or overly formal.
But tonight, he’s also wearing a tux, and it makes him look lickably good. The tailored jacket hugs the broad planes of his shoulders and upper arms, tapering at his waist. He looks taller somehow, more powerful, and as always, his shocking amber eyes stand out against it all. He looks almost like a panther, sleek and dangerous.
His gaze lands on me, and I realize I stopped what I was doing to stare as they all came down the stairs. I’m not the only one—several guests are hovering in the grand foyer as well—but I still jerk into action, hoping the expression on my face didn’t give my thoughts away.
“If you’ll just follow me,” I say politely, ignoring Lincoln’s smirk and turning to the most recent arrival. It’s a local bigwig judge, Alexander Hollowell, if I remember right.
The man—who looks a little like George Clooney, with deep lines in his forehead, a little dimple in his chin, and salt-and-pepper hair—gives me a charming smile and gestures for me to go ahead.
People keep coming, and my mom and I exchange exhausted and bemused looks when no one’s watching. I’ve never been around this many massively rich people at once, and it’s almost like a cloud of money permeates the air around them.
A few couples have college or high school-aged kids who come with them, and I’m not all that surprised to see Dax and Chase show up with their parents, or River show up with his. River’s dad is a lawyer, but I’m not sure what the twin’s parents do for a living.
All the guys are dressed to the nines like Lincoln is, and I make a pointed effort not to stare at them. None of them really acknowledge me, which I guess shouldn’t surprise me. Our relationship at school is rocky at best, and in this context, the lines between us are even more starkly drawn. They already made it clear they just consider me the help, so expecting them to greet me like they know me, to acknowledge that we share several classes together, is apparently asking too much.
Once all the guests are settled in the ballroom, mom ducks out to check in with the kitchen staff, and I circulate to help the servers. As I’m passing through a closely bunched group of people, I feel a hand graze my ass. I jerk involuntarily, my steps faltering, and when I glance up, a sandy-haired man in a charcoal suit gives me a small smile as his gaze tracks down my body.
Ew.
I blink at him in disgust and then thread my way quickly through the crowd, trying to put more distance between us. But it hardly matters. More than one lechy rich man uses the crowded room as an excuse to cop a feel as I walk by—including the George Clooney clone, Judge Hollowell, who brushes his hand down my thigh while entertaining several other party-goers with an apparently hilarious story.
My rising anger is making it hard to focus, and I find myself having to tamp down the urge to elbow my way through the crowd defensively.
The younger guests have mostly all gathered in one corner, talking and laughing amongst themselves, but I don’t see Lincoln or the other three.
Good. At least he’s not here to see this. I’m sure he’d find some way to blame me for these gross men trying to feel me up.
“Hey, Low. You okay, sweetheart?” Mom grabs my elbow and leans in to whisper in my ear. “You’ve got a bit of a death glare going on.”
Fuck. I suck in a breath, trying to rein in my temper. “Yeah. Just not used to this kind of crowd. Can I take a little break? I’ll come back to help again soon.”
She nods encouragingly. “Yeah, of course. Go get something to eat. Grab some of those crab cakes from the kitchen before they disappear.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
She gives me a little push in the direction of the door, and that’s all the encouragement I need. I hightail it out of the ballroom and head toward the west wing to the kitchen. Gwen, the cook, shoots me an indulgent smile as I snag a few crab cakes off a tray and fold them up in a napkin. Then I slip out the back door onto the terrace, anxious for a little bit of fresh air.
“Sneaking out early, Pool Girl?”
