He shrugs. “I don’t have time to sit here and wait for you to finish.”
“Is that what you say to all the ladies? What a charmer,” I say in a huff. “I was almost there. I was going to get it.” My desire to be at this event with Barrett is diminishing by the minute and we haven’t even gone in yet.
Marcus opens my door and I climb out, tossing my phone and the unfinished WordIt game in my clutch. I’d rather end my one-hundred-ninety-seven-day win streak than use Barrett’s tip to finish the game.
Outside the car, Barrett takes my hand. My wrist is limp, barely holding on.
“You are horrible. I can’t believe you did that,” I bite out as we walk up three elongated, red-carpeted stairs before entering the door of the art deco style building.
“It’s a word game.” He waves to someone on the red carpet they’ve set up outside the venue and guides us into the line. “Relax.”
“Says the man who is as rigid as a cement block,” I retort.
Inside, there’s a backdrop with the Top Dog charity logo, along with its top sponsors, where guests are taking photos.
Barrett drops my hand to place his on my lower back and moves us into line. My backless dress makes our contact skin to skin. Surprisingly his touch isn’t rigid. It’s warm and firm, his palm applying slight pressure into my spine, and I’d give anything to be somewhere I could smack his hand away. But, we’re up next, the couple in front of us moving from the X in front of the backdrop so we can proceed.
We smile for the cameras, Barrett’s arm around my waist, pulling me in close. The second we make it into the screening tent to check in, I step out of his reach. He doesn’t bother to address my rebuff.
A woman checks us in and gives us our silent auction bidding numbers and dining table number, then we move into a side room for cocktails. My heels are new and I’m struggling a bit, the balls of my feet absorbing the pounding of the hard marble floor, but when Barrett offers his arm, I push past him.
“Chloe,” he hisses in my ear, grabbing my elbow to keep me in place. “Do I need to remind you why you’re here?”
“No.” I give him my coolest stare. “I’m aware. But I don’t want to spend one more second with you than I have to.”
With that, he lets me go. Where I’m going, I’m not sure, but the room is spacious and I’d like to give myself some space from Barrett. The bar seems like a good idea but I don’t even make it that far before a waiter with a tray of champagne offers one to me.
A glass of champagne and a few passed hors-d’oeuvres later and I’m feeling less feisty. I’ve lost track of Barrett but a chilly breeze from my two o’clock tells me he’s not far.
I don’t recognize anyone. Why would I? This is Barrett’s social circle. I’m a loner chugging her champagne but that’s better than being around Barrett’s grumpy ass. If he’s my lifeline at this event, I’d rather drown.
“There you are,” a woman says behind me.
I turn around to find a gorgeous brunette dressed in a pretty bubble gum pink gown. She looks familiar but I’m uncertain why she would be looking for me.
“I’m Emma, Barrett’s cousin.” She smiles radiantly at me. “We met in passing at one of Aunt Jo’s book launches.”
“Oh, that’s right. I knew you looked familiar.” I stick out my hand. “Chloe Anderson.”
“I know who you are, silly.” She pulls me into a hug. “And what you are.”
“What’s that?” I ask nervously.
“Barrett’s girlfriend. I had to see it with my own eyes.”
She looks around, probably expecting Barrett to be nearby. She’ll be disappointed I ran him off.
“Oh. Right.”
“You are tiny,” she says, then her eyes widen with alarm. “Sorry, I hope that’s not rude. People always think I’m short. My mother’s a runway model, former runway model. She’s sixty now so the eye cream campaigns keep her busy. Honestly, she doesn’t look a day over forty.” Emma pauses, likely retracing the point she’s trying to make. I recognize this because I do it a lot, too. “My point being, people wonder why I didn’t get her height. I blame my dad. It’s the quintessential leggy model falls for short photographer,” she waves at herself, “therefore producing less than average height offspring.”
She takes a sip of her champagne.
“Sorry. I talk a lot. It’s genetic.”