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thirty-two
greyson
The Western Lark Event Center is ablaze with lights, a shining edifice against the darkening sky. A Foundation for Equestrian Therapy banner hangs high above our heads, flapping in the warm wind as we ascend the steep concrete steps. The news warned of a storm coming and the ominous clouds above predict they’ll earn their paycheck this evening.
Rowan and I trail behind Preston and Savy, her ebony skin glowing against the rose-colored gown she wore tonight. Dark, springy curls bounce as she catwalks, and her orange floral perfume reminds me of summer nights spent in Florida as a kid. “Tia might lose her ever-living mind once she catches sight of you.”
“Stop it,” she clucks, slapping my bicep lightly as she smiles. “You don’t look too bad yourself. I believe it’ll be Scarlett losing her mind at you in a suit. You clean up real nice.” Winking, she hooks her arm in mine as I smooth my free hand down the front of my pressed silver tie.
“How’s your wrist?” she asks, inspecting the bandage wrapped tight around my hand.
I flex my fingers underneath the cloth. “Better for the most part. It ended up being more of a sprain than a fracture.”
“Watch your step, baby,” Preston speaks to Savy in a low voice, his arm outstretched to keep her steady on her heels if necessary. He’s at home in his black three-piece Armani suit, threads neat, cuff links reflective, and genuine leather shoes buffed to perfection. Even his hair swoops in debonair fashion, fit for a GQ magazine.
Not jealous whatsoever of my clean cut brother, I glance down at my own suit. The navy material is scratchy where it touches my skin, tight under my arms, and making me sweat through the five layers of deodorant I put on before I left the house.
“How do you stand wearing these things, P?” I grate, pulling at my collar, loosening it up only slightly, causing more sweat to bead on my forehead. Doesn’t help. It’s still eighty degrees outside at seven p.m.
“I’m convinced he was born wearing one,” Savy chirps, clutching her tiny ivy-green sequined purse in front of her while threading one arm through Preston’s.
He leans down to kiss the top of her head, and she curls into his side.
Impatience runs through my veins. I’m ready to pull Scarlett into my side like that tonight—inform the world she’s taken by me and me alone.
Row leans into me, her dress rustling, and whispers, “Soon,” like she has a free pass to my inner thoughts.
We’ve reached the garish doors framed in gilded gold and Preston opens one allowing us to pass through, his voice echoing off the white marble floors of the lobby. “Believe it or not, I’ve gotten used to the denim and flannel, but I’ll admit, I’ve missed the feel of super one hundred thread counts under my fingertips.”
I turn a quirked eyebrow in his direction, watching as his hand runs protectively down the front of his suit. “Super thread count? What does that even mean? There are thread counts for more than just sheets?”
Preston opens his mouth to explain away my obvious ignorance when Savy stops him. “No. Not right now, babe.”
Rowan snorts beside me and I barely contain mine as he spouts off something about the width of wool yarn in microns and the tortoise-shell buttons being sewn on by hand, when we’re ushered to show identification before entering the large ballroom.
When Scarlett said she was up to her eyeballs in event planning for this gala, she wasn’t being modest. Last year, it was in a smaller room, with minimal décor, and barely enough space for us to eat without bumping elbows. This time, opulent chandeliers dripping with faux diamonds dip from the tall ceilings, name placards adorn every table, and a jazz band plays a light number, the soft notes wafting into the rafters. The scents of seasoned meats, delicate appetizers, and fresh flowers fragrance the airy room and my stomach growls.
A waiter walks by with a tray of champagne flutes, and I snag three for Preston, Savy, and Rowan, electing to find water for myself.
Despite my body practically twitching in this suit, my chest swells as I take in all the hard work Scarlett put in for this benefit. To watch her give orders is one thing—nothing sexier than a woman in charge—but to see the fruits of her labor come alive is another.
Isaac and Lynn enter the room together, sporting matching serving attire with Forever Mae’s stitched across the front pocket of their polos. Mae’s may be down home country food, but Lynn adds that artistic flair, making it fit in anywhere—even this fancy shindig. After dinner is served, they plan on ditching their work clothes and joining us for the rest of the evening.
We mingle, catching conversations with various patrons we also serve at SoS and forge new relationships with potential clients. Soon we’re ushered to our table and wait for the speaker to arrive. Gentle music floats above our heads, low lighting creates a mellow mood, and I settle into the atmosphere.
Turning to Tia on my right, I muse, “I have someone I want you to meet.”
Her lash-framed brown eyes crinkle and her pink-hued lips curl into a smile. “Client or…?”
I glance across the table, where Rowan lifts a glass of white wine gracefully to her lips. “No client. A friend of mine.”
Tia follows my gaze to Rowan and the glitter in both their eyes after I made introductions, confirms love is in the air tonight.
Now, where is my lady?
My legs jerk and twitch in anticipation. It still doesn’t feel real—her and I. It’s an out-of-body experience, one I assumed would never happen.
A tap on the microphone diverts my attention to the main stage where the most stunning woman I’ve ever known stands. I knew she looked good in a dress—I’ve seen her in them on multiple occasions, but tonight? Tonight I need someone to follow behind me with a mop to clean up this drool.
