“We don’t serve subpar wine! She has the palate of a cocker spaniel.”
Well, well, well. I laugh at her outrage. “I should’ve told her that.”
“Oh God no!” Mina flings her arms up. “You never say that to the guests. They can’t handle the truth. They think they’re so smart and clever. So you just think it. To yourself.” She gently taps her temple a couple of times. “That’s it.”
Looks like Mina needs to eat too. “Gotcha. Just think it.”
“Right. Good. Now go give that wine to that hopelessly bourgeois woman, and we’ll get the Riesling out to the people who appreciate a fine German vintage.”
I return to the ballroom and look for the snotty redhead. The area is huge, but not overly crowded. I should be able to find her.
I scan the guests. Nope. No Red. She might’ve gone outside. I step out of the main doors, just to make sure. Ah, there. She’s parked her butt on a winding staircase, one of her legs extended. Bright red stilettos encase her professionally pedicured feet. The way she’s stretched on display says she’s posing. Is she getting a photo taken to put up on Instagram?
Just hand her the wine and get back to serving the others. I start toward her, not caring that I might get in the way of the shot. Halfway there, the fine hair on the back of my neck starts to bristle, like it always does when Roy’s pulled one of his stunts. But unlike those times, my skin isn’t crawling.
Still, my heart begins to race, my blood pumping harder and louder until I can’t hear my own thoughts over the roaring in my head. The air seems thinner, and I can’t get enough as every cell in my body goes on full alert.
It’s just the guests. Some hotel staff. Nobody who looks like they want to hurt me.
My knees almost buckle when I see Tolyan walking by. I put a hand on the wall to steady myself. Suddenly my heart isn’t racing with panic, and my blood isn’t rushing with fear. My pulse is still erratic, but I’m okay.
He has an earpiece, like a security guard or something. And he’s in a suit. Unlike this morning, his outfit is all black, including his shirt. No tie, but his shirt’s buttoned all the way up. No matter how well cut his jacket and slacks are, they can’t hide the raw power radiating from his tall, strong frame.
Third time in one day. It has to be a sign. The universe is wondering why the hell I’m not seizing the opportunity and asking him for help.
Giving the wine to the redhead is suddenly not my priority. I start to move toward him, my mouth dry. I still have no clue how I’m going to start the “can you help me?” conversation, but surely something will come to mind.
“Tolyan.” The redhead’s soft and pleading voice stops me in my tracks.
I look at the woman. I didn’t know she could sound like that!
“Could you help me?”
Dammit. That’s what I was going to say! And just look at how easily she asks him for help, when I’m still unsure how to approach. It’s so unfair.
She continues, “I think I’ve twisted my ankle…” She gives him a smile so gentle, it’s almost painful to see.
This woman definitely has a thing for him. Maybe she’s been crushing on him all along. She seems so pretty and helpless there, I can’t imagine any man not rising up to the occasion to render her aid as she extends her hand toward him.
Tolyan eyes her slim ankle. It’s encircled by a sparkly silver anklet, all charmingly sexy. She shifts her leg a little, so it looks longer. She has to have practiced that over and over to hit the pose just so, without appearing like she’s trying too hard.
“Is anything broken?” he asks, not taking her hand.
“No.” She blushes like a shy teenager in love. She’s so good, if I hadn’t had the “it’s the wrong white wine” incident, I’d totally be buying the cutely adorable act. “Just a little twisted, I think.”
Now that he’s been reassured she isn’t too badly hurt, he’s going to help her up and escort her like a gentleman toward the ballroom, while she clings to him. Aaaaand, there goes my third meeting. The charm.
But I can’t let him go like that. I don’t think there’s going to be a fourth chance!
Licking my extra-dry lips, I start to step forward, then stop when he looks away from her, his gaze meeting mine for a fraction of a second. Something flickers in the pale gray-blue depths, and I smile tentatively. Does he recognize me? Will he say hello, or maybe mention the coffee I bought him? Nothing too elaborate, but something along the lines of “Thanks for the coffee, by the way. It was great.”
That would give me the opening I need.
But no. Instead of acknowledging me, he pulls out his phone and taps the screen a few times. “The concierge will send somebody to help you,” he says to the redhead.
“Oh…” she says. She wears her disappointment like a corsage. “I think I can walk, if you’ll just let me lean on—”
“I’m busy, as you can see.” He isn’t even looking at her as he speaks.