Harrison nods, trying his hardest to hide his smirk. “Right away, Mr. Carrington.”
He scurries off and Mrs. Rodgers gracefully sinks back into her seat with her husband by her side. She nods gratefully at Colton while Mr. Rodgers does the same, but judging from the harsh line set in his lips, he knows he’s going to get hell from his wife when they’re in the privacy of their own home.
Laurelle stares at her son in shock, though truth be told, I’m almost certain she’s faking it. She knew there was a good chance that he wouldn’t have her back so I don't know why she’s acting so surprised when he didn’t. “Excuse me?” she calls from the other end of the table, insisting to continue this ‘I’m your mother and you must respect me’ charade. “Did you not see what that woman did to me?”
“I did,” he says, grabbing his glass tumbler and taking a sip of his drink. “But I also saw you shamelessly trying to steal what was hers. Mrs. Rodgers had every right to put you in your place. Now,” he continues, gesturing around the table at his guests. “Unless any of the available men at this table are actually interested in allowing a gold-digger such as yourself into their wallets to take everything you can get your thieving hands on, I suggest you hurry off and clean yourself up. That champagne certainly looks as though it might stain.”
Laurelle’s eyes go wide as gasps are heard around the table. She silently scolds her son but the Laurelle show is over and she knows it. She starts storming toward the door when I clear my throat and steal her attention. “I’d recommend a warm hand wash on that dress. I can write out a step by step process to follow if you’d like.”
Her jaw clenches and if looks could kill, I'd be dead on the spot. She harrumphs and clenches her jaw before storming toward the door once again, only on her way out, she passes Harrison and flips his tray of champagne flutes, sending liquid gold all over the room.
The wait staff rushes in to clear the mess while Colton stands and faces his guests. “I apologize about that,” he says, taking charge like a fucking boss. “How about we open some of my father's vintage whiskey.”
The men in the room cheer as Colton glances to Harrison who nods and scurries off once again.
Colton settles back into his seat beside me and I look at him as though he's some kind of stranger. The way he takes charge like that is so damn impressive. I know working for his father’s business was never what he really wanted but there’s no denying that he’s the best this world will ever see.
“What?” he grins, knowing exactly what’s going through my mind.
I shake my head. “Nothing,” I whisper. “You’re just pretty freaking incredible.” He rolls his eyes and I lean into his side. “Are you okay? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman like that throw a tantrum.”
A loud booming laugh tears from deep within as Colton’s hand falls to my thigh under the table. He squeezes my leg and his eyes instantly sparkle with happiness. “Stick with me, Jade, and you’ll see this shit more than you could ever care for.”
“I don’t know about that,” I laugh. “I could watch your mother being drenched in champagne every day of the week and never get tired of it.”
Colton shakes his head, his eyes dancing around in amusement. The mess is quickly cleaned up and before we know it, the dinner plates are being taken away and the conversation begins to flow again.
Desert is brought out and I glance up, looking at Charlie. He’s slouched back in his chair and I’ve never seen someone look so miserable. Before I even know what I’m doing, I grab my uneaten dinner roll from the small fancy plate before me and launch the fucker across the table.
“Hey, Hot Sauce.”
The dinner roll lands right in Charlie’s lap and his head snaps up, along with it one hell of a nasty glare. The dinner roll is launched back at me with a speed I'm not ready for. I try to catch it and groan as it slams against my chest.
Charlie’s eyes bug out of his head as he sits up in horror. “Fuck, sorry,” he rushes out as I rub a hand over my chest and pull it away only to find a big red mark.
I burst out laughing and catch a few curious glances from the people around me as I look back at Charlie. “No, I’m sorry,” I tell him. “Please stop hating me. I can’t take your miserable pouting anymore.”
He scrunches up his face, probably hating that we're having this conversation with a hundred ears all listening in. “Fine,” he finally grumbles. “You’re forgiven, but keep something like that from me again …”