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Yep. This was definitely a new level of low for me.
“What am I doing? What am I doing?” I muttered from between gritted teeth as one block narrowed to a hundred feet, then fifty. Twenty.
Oh God, here I was.
“Evening, ma’am,” a pleasant doorman greeted, flashing me a wide grin when I made eye contact with him. “Lovely weather, isn’t it?”
Oh, wow. He was actually nice. Thank God. This was going better than I imagined it would. I grinned back, relieved by his welcome as he held the door open. For me.
“It really is,” I said, thanking him from the bottom of my heart, and not just for opening the door but because his smile had helped bolster my resolve more than anything else.
But then I entered the building, and all my resolve dissolved like sugar dumped into a cup of hot water. Poof. Gone.
Because, holy shit, seriously, what was I doing in a building like this?
I swear, the carpet was made of velvet. Bloodred velvet. All the decorative tables had beveled marble surfaces with fresh flowers in ancient-looking vases on them. I wouldn’t be surprised if the ugly paintings on the walls were actually originals by famous artists. It was all so far out of my pay grade, I’m surprised the lunatic doorman had even let me into the building. Preston Estates was the last place I belonged.
When a deep, condescending voice cleared its throat before saying, “Ahem. May I help you?” in a thick French accent, I almost peed my pants, wondering if it was the Almighty Himself, ready to shoo me back out the door, until I glanced around, only to find a thin, ancient male standing behind a reception desk. He wore a red jacket and white gloves.
I was about to tell him, no, thanks, I’m good, then flee back out into the night. But a picture of Miguel’s sunken face as he slept fitfully in his narrow bed, sweating and shivering through his fever, filled my head. He was so miserable right now. He already had a tough enough life as it was with the diabetes they had diagnosed him with eight months ago and the insulin pump that was hooked up to him twenty-four hours a day. I just wanted to make him as comfortable as possible until at least this passed. And one pill—one tiny little pain reliever—would do him a world of good.
Okay, fine. I was doing this. Wearing an old black hoodie, yoga pants, and tattered gray sneakers, I approached the thin, saggy-faced man. His gold name tag read André.
“Yes, hi. I, umm. I’m here to see Diego Hernandez.”
André sent me a distasteful frown, his eyebrows puckering as he roved a patronizing glance over me, his expression reminding me of a person who’d just tasted sour lemons.
Finally, with a crinkle still marring the surface of his long nose, he answered, “In the ballroom, I believe.”
The ballroom. Wow, Diego must be hosting one of his galas he was always telling me about, trying to impress that new producer who’d just taken on his latest film, no doubt.
Which didn’t boost my insecurities. Nope. Not at all.
I self-consciously tugged at the hem of my hoodie and offered receptionist André a tight smile. “Thanks.” I turned away, only to remember one minor detail, which caused me to spin back and clear my throat as I set my hands on the edge of the counter. “Um, sorry. But one last question.”
André blinked in shock at my fingers that dared to touch his countertop, my chipped blue nail polish clearly more than his delicate sensibilities could handle by the way he reared away from them.
I removed my hands from sight, tucking them into the front pocket of my hoodie. “But could you tell me exactly where the ballroom is?”
I got a blink. Once, twice, three times. And yes, I was still there after all that. Too bad for André, blinking did not make me disappe
ar.
Sighing impatiently, he said, “Down that hall to the end, then left.”
“Perfect,” I said, smiling at him so brightly he actually frowned in suspicion. Yeah, he knew I was mentally blessing his heart right now. “Thank you.”
But when I turned away, he cleared his throat again. “Typically, it’s frowned upon for staff to fraternize with friends at Preston Estates while they’re working.”
I glanced back, sent him a confused squint and then nodded. Alrighty then. No idea what that meant. But I said, “Okay, thanks for the warning.” And I went on my merry way.
For some reason, it didn’t even occur to me to realize that André had just called Diego part of the staff until way after I’d actually made it to the ballroom and stepped just inside the entrance, only to plow to an uncomfortable halt and gape incredulously at the sight before me.
Talk about black-tie affair. I totally didn’t belong here.
I looked like a freaking homeless junkie in my hoodie and yoga pants.
The good news was that no one had noticed me yet, so I inconspicuously started backing toward the doorway even as I scanned the faces of every male in a tux, looking for Diego. He was impossible to spot among the sea of fancy dresses and silver trays of champagne and caviar. I was about to give up completely when I heard an irritable voice snap, “Hernandez.”
