And the milling guests have all three. Silk and other lustrous materials I can’t begin to guess at drape bodies that are kept in shape by the most up-to-date personal trainers and nutritionists. Jewelry and watches that look priceless sparkle, letting everyone know how well off the wearers are.
I bet they never had to shop clearance racks or give something up because they couldn’t afford the price tag.
Suddenly, I feel small. And just a tad pathetic.
I probably don’t belong here. I…
I stop. What the hell am I thinking? I’m not here to mingle. I’m here to serve these people. Two very different things. They don’t care that I can only afford items on sale or that most of my dreams have price tags I can’t afford.
Come on, pull yourself together. Mina didn’t hire you to feel sorry for yourself.
A sumptuous dinner is served. I check my table, making sure I have everyone’s drink correct—every guest seems to be getting their own thing. The aroma of the rich soups, grilled veggies and meat cuts into my belly like a knife, intensifying the emptiness. I should’ve had two chocolate bars.
Meanwhile, a gorgeous blonde woman who seems to be in charge gets on the stage and makes a speech about helping the poor. People clap and say all the appropriate things, like how they’d love to help. They could’ve just sent the money they’re spending at the hotel to a soup kitchen, and they would’ve done more good. But that would mean no cool selfies for their social media profiles.
After the dinner is over and the guests are milling around, I take a tray of white wine and start working the room. One of the women—a redhead—stops me with an indolent roll of her wrist, which is glittering with diamonds.
“Is that Chardonnay?” she asks.
I look at the wine glasses. There’s no note saying what they are.
Before I can answer, she plucks one and takes a sip. Then, almost immediately, her face scrunches like she just took a mouthful of Kool-Aid. “Ugh, gross. This is Riesling, not Chardonnay.” She spits the words like the glass was served on a picture of me pegging her significant other with a strap-on.
“I didn’t say it was Chardonnay,” I point out professionally.
The redhead lets out a sound of annoyance. “Did you just talk back to me?”
“I just wanted to clarify. If you’d like some Chardonnay, I can get it for you.”
“So you can bring me a white Sauvignon instead?” She sneers. “It isn’t like you’re going to know the difference anyway,” she mutters, her eyes on my name tag. “They don’t serve wine coolers here, Angelika W.” Her tone says I’m trash, just like my name and everything else about me. She cocks an eyebrow, one end of her lips quirking up. Isn’t she superior?
I fantasize about taking the Riesling and pouring it all over her prettily styled hair and expertly made-up face. But since I need money—and don’t we all need money, other than the people invited to this fundraiser?—I bare my teeth in what I hope passes for a friendly smile and take the glass from her. “I’ll take this subpar vintage off your hands and go see if there’s a Chardonnay I can bring out for you.”
“Make it fast. And make sure it’s dry and crisp,” she adds, snapping her fingers at me. “With the right aroma!”
I need to eat, I need to eat, I need to eat. “I’ll get right on that.”
“Please do.” She looks up, beseeching the heavens. “So inconvenient.”
I turn around and leave before she can whine about being microaggressed because I gave her the wrong white wine. If her attitude reflects the foundation’s in any way, Eric will fit right in. I sincerely hope he gets an internship so he and the redhead can put their heads together and complain about all the ways things can go terribly wrong in their lives.
I go to the kitchen. Mina sees me and frowns. “Why are you back already? Your tray’s still full.”
“Somebody wants a dry and crisp Chardonnay. She was insulted I had Riesling on the tray.”
Mina rolls her eyes. “Fine. Here, take this to her.” She hands me a glass.
I take it and point at the tray I put down. “Apparently, the Riesling’s subpar.”
“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.