This weekend in Oregon was my best shot with Adaline.
I blew out a deep breath, set my jaw with determination, and set out to find her.
Adaline
Without sounding like an asshole, I think I can admit that one of my very best qualities is that I have a staggering ability to roll with the punches. Very little throws me off. I’ve had a kid puke in my shoe, and I didn’t freak out or lose my calm. And trust me, that’s only one of a million examples of why I’m really excellent at my job.
I feel like that’s important to know because I don’t make it a habit to indulge my temper like I did at the party, where I swung a champagne bottle between a man’s legs with the sole purpose of bringing him to his knees.
In fact, I’d never done anything like it before. I’ve never had to.
I also wasn’t stupid. I was at a swanky masquerade fundraiser, so my face was covered, and the man in question had absolutely no clue who I was. Not that I was someone important. I wasn’t.
As the former personal assistant/nanny/right-hand woman for Molly Ward Griffin—Amazon Studios executive—and her husband, Noah Griffin—former pro-Bowl defensive end for the Washington Wolves—I was no stranger to a whole host of rich and famous people. Athletes and models and the elite of the elite in Seattle.
I dealt with them even more now. I planned their baby showers. Wedding showers. Birthday parties. Their kids’ bougie sleepovers. And ninety-eight percent of them were really awesome people. Kind, normal people who had pretty atypical jobs.
This guy wasn’t kind.
Nor was he an athlete, judging by the lack of height and the surplus of belly. His hair, liberally streaked with gray, was long enough that he could’ve tied it back in a little rat-like ponytail, which made the entire thing worse.
After the mediocre dinner came to a close, I decided to wander. The chatter got a bit too loud, and without my brother as my pity date for the out-of-town event I’d been invited to, I felt a little lonely. Loneliness was not something I felt often. For four years, I had a set plus-one, someone who would’ve been wandering the halls with me while we complained about the bland chicken. I let out a deep breath. I didn’t miss Nick, which was the first step to realizing that I was better off. But still, he was someone who had attended things like this with me.
But without him or any of my family around me and the chair to my right empty at dinner, I felt some irrepressible tug that I was supposed to be somewhere else. Doing something else. Something more important.
The din of the event faded as I turned down a hallway with some impressionist artwork lining the walls. The spotlights in various angles around the room made the surface of my dress glitter.
The gown in question was Molly’s. She’d lent it to me when she asked if I’d like to take a spot at the table they’d purchase to support the event. At the time, the idea of getting expertly done up in a glittering black gown and donning a gorgeous black-and-gold-lace mask sounded impossibly glamorous.
But in the quiet hallway, when the sound of footsteps broke through my thoughts, I held my breath that all this glamour was not about to segue into something murder-y.
If I’d declined Molly’s offer to attend and thanked her for the opportunity, I wouldn’t have been in this quiet exhibit, away from the noise and away from … you know … witnesses.
“I saw you at the bar.” Not the best opening line I’d heard. “You look like you could use a refill.”
I groaned. Honestly, there was no stopping that sound from exiting my mouth, nor was there any hiding the annoyance buried deep, deep within it. At the age of twenty-six, I’d had just enough experiences with creepy old men who thought it was okay to follow a young woman to a quiet, dark place. No, sir, this was not a great place to chat me up.
In my hand was a champagne flute, and as I stared at a small, framed painting in front of me, enclosed in glass, I wondered what would happen if I knocked the glass over.