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The swanky venue is filled with laughter, conversation, and the undertones of a soft piano coming from the corner where the orchestra is getting ready for another round of dancing.
Shimmying voile curtains hang from the ceiling, forming tender pillars to soften the interior of the warehouse. Just one of the touches to transform this room into a ballroom. Most of it under my supervision.
I should feel proud. I would if it wasn’t for the dress. Or all the other disasters in my life.
I tug my neckline up yet again to ensure the girls stay in. Argh. Tonight I should look glamorous. Instead, I look vulgar.
This gala hosts the crème de la crème of New York and if I ever wanted to fit in, this dress ensures I don’t.
Not that I want to fit in. I’m working, after all. The evening is going really well, the guests seem happy, drunk enough to bet more in the silent auction, but not enough to cause trouble.
I should be proud of an event well prepared. Instead, after two weeks of frantic organizing, I’m teetering near a breakdown stronger than my three-minute crying session earlier.
When London Lowe called me about her event planner falling sick so close to her most important event of the year, I knew it would be near-impossible to take over. In fact, I’m pretty sure I was her last option.
Taking over at that stage and finalizing every detail I hadn’t planned, then ensuring everything ran smoothly without understanding what it is I’m managing was a challenge.
And for a client with as many connections as London has, failure or even a hiccup isn’t an option.
No wonder she couldn’t find anyone so close to the event date. Nobody is that stupid. I’m not that stupid. But I am that desperate.
In the end, I pulled it off. Minus the dress. The result is… I’m dressed. My hair is in a high ponytail, my makeup consists of red lipstick, and my gown either exposes my breasts or raises up around my hips. My body is trying to escape it.
I can’t even imagine having eaten anything today. Or drinking, for that matter. I focus on breathing, organizing and surviving without bursting stitches.
“Can you help me bid on a cruise, my dear?”
The voice startles me, and it takes a moment to find its owner. The lady is hunched over, supporting herself with a fancy cane. She looks like a fragile fairy godmother with a wicked stare. I smile.
Her dress dangles on her birdlike frame, and while she looks a hundred years old and struggles to move around, I’m envious. Why couldn’t my dress come three sizes bigger?
“Of course. It’s just over here.” I help her navigate around the silent auction table.
“I don’t have my glasses. What’s the last bid there, honey?” She points at an item. Her crooked finger reminds me of Annie.
“Twenty thousand dollars.”
Shit, I know these people have money, but this is ridiculous. I remind myself it’s for a good cause, but it’s hard when I imagine what a quarter of it would do for my family.
“Double it, my dear.”
I blink a few times. “Are you sure?”
She cackles. “Of course. I know London will use the money well. And I want to win.”
“You really want that cruise.” I laugh after I put her information down, wondering if there is a way I could subtly suggest another good cause.
This one would take even a thousand dollars, but while I’m desperate, my family situation hasn’t robbed me of my dignity. Not yet.
“Oh, please, I couldn’t care less about it, but my sister hates cruises and I want to give it to her as a present. The stick up her ass wouldn’t allow her to refuse, especially after I make sure all our friends know about my generous gift. I will kill two birds, so to speak, give to a charity, piss off my sister, and get two weeks of freedom from her gossip and meddling in my affairs.” She cackles again and shuffles away.
The little vengeful lady brings a smile to my lips, despite the way she throws around money to spite her sister. It’s too close to home. I wish I could do the same. Not to spite. To help.
My smile dies as my eyes connect with a dark gaze I wish I didn’t know. A dark brown abyss.
My head swirls with apprehension and possibly the lack of sustenance.
My poor heart thumps against my ribcage, and with my generous cleavage I’m worried everyone might see it.
