This Could Be Us (Skyland, #2)(7)
I was skeptical when Edward first introduced the White Glove program for CalPot customers who purchased the most product and spent above a certain threshold. They would get special agents assigned to their accounts who were always available for questions and concerns, as well as expedited delivery and even retreats as a thank-you for their continued business. Seemed like a possible waste of money to me, but I was wrong. The program has thrived, and it earned Edward a huge bonus last year.
It’s also why he says he and Amber have had to work so hard and so closely together.
“We’re doing Cabo next,” Edward says, reeling me back to their conversation. “That is, if Cross gets off my back.”
“He’s just doing his job,” Delores says. “We’re lucky to have him. Best at what he does.”
“Which is what?” I ask, ignoring the quelling look Edward shoots me.
“Forensic accounting. Not exactly what we hired him for, but that’s his background,” Delores answers, casting a narrow-eyed glance at me. Not unfriendly, but like she’s trying to remember something. “You’re the wife, right?”
“Yes.” I flash a saccharine-sweet smile and lean into Edward. “I also answer to my given name, which is Soledad.”
Edward coughs and tugs my hand. “We better be getting into the party.”
“Chicken breasts.” Delores snaps her fingers and points to me. “You wanted a bigger pan.”
I search for an answer that won’t put Edward in an awkward position or upset him. “Well, I—”
“Our test group agreed,” she says.
My half-formed apology dies. “They did?”
“They did.” She nods, approximating a smile. “I kept thinking about that one lonely chicken breast sitting off to the side waiting because our pan was too small.”
I flick a sidelong glance up at her, surprised to see the corner of her mouth twitching. I smother a giggle. “Oh, my gosh. That’s hilarious. Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.” She lifts borderline bushy brows that I’m itching to tweeze. “Well, not the part about the lonely chicken breast, but I did ask our designers about it. They polled a group of consumers who overwhelmingly agreed with you.”
“Of course they did,” Edward interjects, slipping an arm around my shoulder. “Sol’s full of great ideas. I’m always telling her she should speak up more often.”
I suppress a retort at his blatant lie and accompany him and Delores into the large room of tables loaded with food. The tantalizing scents draw a growl from my empty stomach even though, if tradition holds, the food won’t be as good as it smells. We take our place in line for the buffet, and Edward touches my elbow to get my attention.
“Hey,” he leans down to whisper. “I see Amber. I need to ask her something.”
My body involuntarily tenses at the woman’s name. He must feel my muscles turn rigid beneath his palm because he gives my arm a reassuring squeeze.
“I won’t be long, but there was something we were closing right before I left the office. There’s no room for error.”
“Of course,” I say stiffly, selecting a plate from the stack of china at the end of the table.
“Be right back.”
He walks away, heading straight for the woman smiling at him from across the room. I’ve seen her name flash up on his phone and have even caught a glimpse of her young, pretty face and silvery blond hair on-screen during video conference calls, but this is the first time we’ve been in the same room. She oozes sensuality in the dress seemingly shellacked to her lithe figure. Judging by the appreciative smile on Edward’s face, he’s not concerned with her dress being too revealing or drawing undue attention. They leave the room, heads bent together conspiratorially. Holding my empty plate, I push down the persistent sense of unease.
“Are you in line?”
A woman I recognize as the wife of one of the department heads stands behind me, sliding an impatient look from the stack of plates to my immovable self.
“Oh, sorry!” I let her pass me in line for the buffet. As awful as the food usually tastes at these Christmas parties, I bet she won’t be eager for long.
I’m scooping up green beans that look about as stiff and unseasoned as starched flannel when a movement at the door distracts me. A tall man stands a few feet away, filling the doorframe. He’s handsome, with skin the color of burnt umber stretched over features constructed of steel and stone, but that’s not what is so arresting. He’s not that tall. Maybe an inch over six feet. He’d tower over my five four, but it’s not his height that sets him apart either. It’s the contrast between the utter stillness of his athletic frame and the energy he emits in waves, like there’s a million thoughts swirling behind those dark eyes. There’s something imposing about the set of his shoulders, the proud angle of his head, that gives the impression of looking down. Not exactly arrogantly, but literally looking down, like he watches from an aerial shot and is analyzing everyone and everything in minute detail. Those assessing eyes gleam beneath a bridge of a brow, the dark line dipped into a slight frown.
He stands there, seemingly at ease, with his hands thrust into the pockets of well-tailored pants. His gaze passes slowly over the occupants of the room, never pausing too long on any one thing or person. How would it feel to hold his full attention? To be the object of that stare, a gaze so sharp it could pin you to the wall? It’s as if he’s searching for someone he hasn’t found. His survey reaches the buffet table, passing indifferently over us, but then swings back.