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Wesley seems to relent, taking a look at the crowd. "What do you want, another old fashioned?"
Right, he doesn't know.
"I've had enough alcohol for the night," I lie. "Apple juice will do."
He doesn't seem put off by my request in the slightest. "I'll be right back."
I watch him weave through the pockets of people, then I head for the bathroom.
TWENTY-SEVEN
ALIZE
The bathroom isright off the balcony.
Surprisingly, the winter wonderland theme made it in here, too.
The event planner made sure that every part of this party felt like an experience, even taking a pee. Synthetic snow is piled against the walls, with snowflake-shaped air-fresheners hanging from the ceilings. The air is warm with the scent of pine needles and pumpkin spice from the candles lit in a corner of the room. Even the toilet paper is wrapped in delicate lace woven in the pattern of snowflakes.
At first, I thought it was overkill, but by the time I'm finished with my business, all the little decor elements made my experience more enjoyable. I get my phone out of my clutch and send a text to the group chat.
It's been dead for a day or two now—as I imagine everyone else is busy with their vacations. I haven't even told the girls that I'm pregnant yet, but I think this can be a good segue into it.
I can already picture their reactions as I'm typing up my message.
Nya would be excited, of course. She'd probably make a Pinterest board for the baby's nursery. Tara, on the other hand, I expect to be skeptical at first. Probably concerned that I'm a bit too young. But she'd come around eventually, because more than anything else, Taraalwayshas my back.
And then she’d probably want me to name the baby after her.
A: I want the bathrooms decorated at my wedding.
I stow my phone away and check my reflection in the mirror, smoothing down a few strands of hair that have come loose from my hair-tie. After double-checking to make sure that everything else is in place, I exit the bathroom.
My heels click against the huge stone pavers, nearly drowned out by the noise of the party inside the ballroom. There's a chill in the air, and there's no moon in the dusky night sky, only a few twinkling stars. I wrap my arms around my bare shoulders, looking at the garden down below.
A grand staircase leads to the garden—even the garden matches the theme of the party, and I wonder if at some point, the evening's events will move outdoors. It's nearly the dead of winter, but there are so many heating devices dotted around the place that outside doesn't feel as cold as it should. The heated fountain up ahead must be contributing to the comfortable temperature.
Wesley should be back with my apple juice by now.
I'm thinking of what else I can ask him about what Alexander was like growing up when someone steps out of the shadows lining the side of the terrace. I freeze, my hand trailing to my thigh instinctively, reaching for my gun.
There's virtually nobody out here now, even though there were a handful of people milling about when I entered the bathroom. I'm suddenly aware of how alone I am. Even though I managed to dismiss the idea that my father is somehow here, I can't shake the dread snaking up my spine.
The shadow steps into the light.
Griffin Duke.
He's dressed up more than I've ever seen him—three-piece tuxedo the color of pearls, cream bow-tie and white leather shoes. His hair is coiffed and it looks like there's even a smattering of make-up on his face to help with the wrinkles.
But he's scowling at me, and that makes him a horrid sight.
I harden my expression into something I hope looks more neutral than the mix of shock and disquiet I feel. My hand still hovers by my thigh, though I can't picture myself shooting Alex's father.
Unless he gives me a reason to.
He doesn't speak for a long second. Just stands there, with a drink in his hand, looking at me like I'm worth less than the synthetic snow beneath his feet. It pisses me off.
"How can I help you, Mr. Duke?" I ask, my voice clipped.
