4

The servers swooped in again, clearing plates with the efficiency of hawks plucking prey. I watched as Alonzo’s untouched soup bowl was lifted from in front of him. Not a single spoonful gone. So, not a soup guy.

I bit down on my lip, eyeing the new cutlery arranged like a puzzle in front of me. Three forks, two knives, one spoon—my odds of embarrassing myself increased with every course. Maybe if I slipped sideways out of the chair, I could sneak past the principal without notice.

I pushed my chair back, muttering under my breath, “Excuse me—”

Before I could stand, a voice boomed over the speakers.

“Thank you all for coming tonight!”

I froze halfway up. On the dance floor, a man with thinning white hair clutched a microphone like it was his crown jewel. Instantly, every head in the room turned toward him.

“Seriously?” I hissed, sinking back down.

Alonzo chuckled quietly beside me. I narrowed my eyes at him, but he was already looking forward, face politely blank.

The man launched into a rambling speech about—of all things—historical building preservation. Crumbling facades and luxury condos. My inner snark deflated. How was I supposed to complain about being stuck here when the cause was so… noble?

The applause barely ended before waiters swooped in again, setting the second course in front of us. My stomach twisted at the sight of cheese-stuffed mushrooms, sizzling and golden. I thought longingly of the leftover pizza sitting in my fridge at home.

I reached for a fork, but then I noticed Reagan Sutton of Sutton Sweets delicately slicing into her mushroom. Ham, nuts, and something suspiciously meaty spilled out under the cheese. My appetite vanished. Definitely not safe.

I clasped my hands together until my knuckles went white and forced my eyes up at the ceiling. Breathe, Alicia. Don’t let them see you unravel.

Alonzo’s voice broke through my spiral. “You know eating the food is part of dinner, right?”

“Please,” I whispered harshly, “just let me sit here until it’s over.”

His lips quirked. “So your grand plan is to stare at the ceiling for four hours straight? That’s one hell of a neck workout.”

My head snapped down. “Four hours?”

He poured himself wine with casual precision. “Dinner’s four courses. Add speeches. Add dancing. Add something inevitably going wrong. I give it four hours minimum—and at least one sixty-five-year-old meltdown.”

I slapped my palm over my glass before he could pour for me. “No, thank you. I don’t drink.”

His eyes flicked up, unreadable. “Pregnant?” The question landed with all the tact of a sledgehammer.

Heat shot to my face. “No. Just—no.” I pulled my hand back. “Anxiety doesn’t exactly mix well with alcohol. Last thing I need is a panic attack on top of this circus.”

“Fair enough.” He filled his own glass, voice even. Then, almost lazily, “Truth be told, I don’t enjoy these events either. They’re not meant to be fun. They’re meant to be profitable. Networking is the only reason anyone shows up.”

“Good to know,” I muttered. “And yet you’re here.”

His lips curved into something wicked. “Because sometimes, if I’m lucky, I get seated next to the most beautiful woman in the room.”

I blinked, caught off guard. If he’d smirked, if he’d winked, I could’ve brushed it off as a line. But he looked at me with steady, dark eyes that gave nothing away. Heat crawled up my neck, settling low in my stomach.

“You weren’t lucky,” I reminded him, my voice shakier than I wanted. “You tampered with the seating chart.”

“Touché.” His grin widened, transforming his sharp features into something disarmingly human. My pulse skipped like it had been waiting for that exact expression.

“Every once in a while,” he said, “you have to make your own luck.”

I let out a scoff, though it sounded more like a laugh. “I forgave the first cheesy line. That one? Too much.”

Unbothered, he took a slow sip of wine. It should’ve looked pompous. Instead, he held the glass like he’d been born with it, every motion practiced, unselfconscious. He could’ve described wine as light-bodied notes of cherries with earthy undertones without sounding like a pretentious ass.

“At least we agree on one thing,” he said after swallowing. “You are the most beautiful woman here. And I do admire a woman who knows her own worth.”

The audacity made me snort. “Alright, Casanova. Cool it.”

Before I could escape further into sarcasm, Mrs. Sutton leaned across the table, conspiratorial smile in place. “Constance, darling, have you tried the stuffed mushrooms at Chez? Divine. I’m sure they’d even Allieiver, considering you prefer to… stay home.”

The way she said it, like my private life was common gossip, made my stomach clench. These people thrived on trading crumbs of information like currency.

I gave her my politest smile. “Not yet, unfortunately.”

Her eyes gleamed as if she’d won something. “And their truffle ice cream. Heavenly. Though I suppose Allieivering ice cream across the city might be a challenge.”

Oh, she was twisting the knife.

I kept my tone light, airy. “I’d never dare. Sugar and dairy are disastrous for hair density. I’m vain about mine.” I let my gaze flick—just for a beat—toward her perfect bob. “Vanity’s a terrible vice, isn’t it?”

The satisfaction of watching her falter was dangerous. She touched her hairline, lips parting in a faint oh.

“Well,” she huffed, composure cracking, “yes. It is.”

Shit. Heat surged through me. Had I just insulted Sutton Sweets’ reigning queen? My brain spun with the urge to backpedal. To fix it.

But before I could speak, Alonzo’s hand slid around mine.

“Come on, Blondie,” he said smoothly, tugging me to my feet.

“What—wait—did you just call me Blondie?” I stammered, stumbling as he pulled me toward the dance floor. His hand was warm, his grip firm, and my pulse thundered with every step.

“I thought you’d appreciate the nickname,” he said easily. “Since you’re so vain about your hair.”

I stopped dead, staring up at him. My face came level with his chest. He was tall. Too tall. Beautiful in a way that wasn’t fair—broad shoulders, sharp jaw, unfairly proportioned to the universe.

“I actually love ice cream,” I blurted as he guided my hand onto his shoulder and settled his palm against the small of my back. “But truffle? Please. Caramel fudge is the peak of human invention.”

He slid his fingers against mine, weaving them together. The contact burned. My stomach tightened.

Then he pulled me flush against his chest, moving us into the rhythm of the string quartet’s Bridgerton-style pop cover.

I wasn’t dancing—he was. My feet just skimmed the floor while he steered with effortless precision.

The air smelled of flowers and candle wax, but all I could breathe was his cologne—citrus sharpened by something darker, magnetic.

“I’m a vanilla man myself,” he said softly, his lips angled down near my ear.

I scrunched my nose. “You? Vanilla? I’d have pegged you for rocky road.”

His brows lifted. “Why?”

“Dark. Rich. With a soft side underneath. And maybe… a little nuts.”

The grin that spread across my face scared me. Flirting. I was flirting. Abort. Retreat. “Anyway, I shouldn’t have said that to her. I burned a bridge.”

“I disagree.” His voice dropped, fingertips brushing up my spine, tracing vertebrae with calculated ease. My breath hitched.

“You’re a wild card,” he murmured. “And tonight? You reminded her exactly where her place is.”