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I snatched my hand back and cradled it against my chest, lest he make another grab for it. "Then what are we doing? I'm still really fucking mad at you!"
"You're so fuckin' difficult, you know that?" Brandon looked at me with a hard gaze that gradually softened. "But I love you anyway." He leaned down and smacked a brief, intense kiss on my lips. "I'm sorry, okay? And not for nothing, but you look insanely hot in that dress."
Oh. I dropped my hand and swallowed. "Thanks. I think."
Brandon picked my hand up and kissed my palm gently. "Come on, Red. There are some people I need to talk to, and I want you to see what this is all about. Then we can leave, and I'll show you just how sorry I really am for being late."
Before I could say anything else, he pressed a broad palm against the door and pushed.
As soon as we stepped into the room, the chatter comprised of predominantly male voices came to an immediate halt. Several pairs of eyes shot to Brandon's and my still-clasped hands. Brandon, to his credit, just squeezed tighter.
"Sterling!" A deep voice called out from across the room. "You made it. Traffic didn't kill you getting back from New York, did it?"
At that, the din resumed, and Brandon steered us toward the owner of the voice, a trim, younger man with graying black hair. He stood next to a set of bookshelves with a few other cohorts, including my stepfather, Maurice.
"Hi, Maurice," I murmured as I joined them.
Maurice just gave a curt nod and glanced at the hand that Brandon still held.
"Skylar," Brandon said, pulling my attention away, "I'd like you to meet Cory Stewart. He's the guy who will be my campaign manager if I decide to run. For now, he's in charge of PR at Ventures."
I reached out to shake Cory's hand, ignoring his sharp concern. Everything about him was sharp, actually. His posture under the black and white tuxedo was ramrod-straight; his face, with pointed angles, a razor-edged nose, and beady eyes that darted up and down my person with lightning-quick judgment, had the warmth of a steel knife.
"Pleased to meet you," I said with a forced smile.
"And you," he replied. He looked anything but pleased, and darted a quick look at Brandon. "Listen, buddy, I hate to break it to you, but we're going to have to save introductions for later. You've got a room full of people here who only want to know the answer to one question: are you running?"
Again, the room silenced as everyone turned to hear the answer. After a few bemused moments, Brandon just cracked a smile.
"You're a crafty one," he said, shaking a finger at his maybe-campaign manager. "Can you believe this guy?" he asked the room. "Could charm someone out of their last kidney, I swear."
The room erupted in low laughter, and its occupants once again turned back to their conversations, satisfied that Brandon's decision wouldn't be made tonight. I looked on curiously. I hadn't realized just how many people were invested in his plans.
"Well, since you're determined to keep us all in suspense, can I convince you to meet a couple of prospective donors?" Cory asked. "If your...friend here doesn't mind letting you go for a few?"
Brandon looked down at me.
"Do you mind?" he asked. "You can stay with me if you want. But this is just networking around the room."
"It's actually pretty boring," Cory added. He was trying to sound friendly, but I could feel, rather than hear the tension in his words. He wasn't happy I was there.
Brandon just waited patiently and squeezed my hand again. I squeezed back, then let it go.
"It's okay," I said.
I meant it. For the first time that evening, I actually wanted to sit back and observe. This was the real reason that Brandon had asked me to come.
He leaned down like he was going to kiss me on the cheek, but then clearly thought better of it and straightened. I tried to convince myself it didn't matter.
"I won't be long," he said. "There's someone with drinks around here. Get comfortable."
I located a server taking orders for the kitchen. I wouldn't be having any more alcohol tonight, but I could definitely use some water.
"Go ahead," I said. "I'll be fine."
I took a seat on one of the large Chesterfield chairs that sat around the perimeter of the room. It was a library or study of some sort, a rich man's version of intellectualism, with the dark wood, built-in shelving, and large, masculine furniture.
"I didn't know it was public news."
