Page 25 of Catfish

“Wade Lockwood,” she replies like she had something sour in her mouth.

I furrow my brows. “I don’t remember him being on the guest list.”

She scoffs. “He wasn’t. He just waltzed his way in here like he owned the place.”

"It's fine," I vow because I have more important shit to do. I hand her our business cards. "Go put these on the trays and around the tables. I'm going to go talk to Mrs. Montgomery about when to serve dinner, and I'll hunt down some whiskey for the man."

Chase: Does that part turn you off, Sox?

Me: I like a challenge. And right now, I’m on a challenge for Whiskey.

I stroll through the crowd of politicians and B-list celebrities, chatting and drinking while being handed appetizers of caviar and cheese. The next round of food will be going out soon, and I need to check with my caterer to see the list of alcohol we ordered for this event.

Wade Lockwood would have to kiss my whole ass if I don’t have the kind of alcohol he wants for a celebration he wasn’t invited to.

Chase: Whiskey, huh?

Me: Yep.

I hunt down the caterer, Martha, a sweet lady who tells me she can grab me a bottle of Dalmore’s within ten minutes after I told her that it wasn't necessary. She taps my arm with a smile and tells me she does this for a living, and I should go do what I need to, she'll send someone to come get me when it's here.

That ticks a little at my nerves.

Martha has been one of our vendors for almost a year and I've never had any issues with her. She's on her game at all times. She'd jump over a cliff to get me what I need. I just don't like her being taken advantage of by an uninvited guest.

Which needs to be brought to his attention.

I don't know Wade Lockwood personally, but I am aware that he's a young hotshot governor who probably got voted in because of his looks. I remember hearing through word of mouth that he's following in his father's footsteps of allegedly "making a difference" in the world.

Currently, he's not, because I just had to send my caterer out on a bullshit run for some whiskey.

He might have people coddle and pamper him on a daily basis, but this wasn't a spa, and I wasn't ever one to keep my mouth shut when I was being inconvenienced.

I tap an older man’s shoulder, asking him if he could point me in the direction of said pain in my ass, Wade Lockwood. He smiles at me, surprised that I was speaking to him or something, and points me towards the door.

Then I realize I have no idea what this dude looks like.

I’ve heard he’s handsome, athletic, has a big-ass mouth—probably because he thinks he simply can just have one because he won his position.

Powering on my screen to internet stalk, I see a new text from Chase.

Chase: Good choice of alcohol.

Me: Don’t agree with the asshole that is making a special request for it. You’re supposed to be on my side.

Keying Wade Lockwood’s name into Google, a recent post from the Connecticut Current announces his run for Democratic delegate a few months ago. I click on it, hoping it’ll have a picture of him somewhere.

It shows up right away, under the heading and, holy hell, fuck, and shit.

Dark hair, stunning blue eyes, matching stubble edges his sharp jaw, and you have the culprit in the whiskey shortage of the night.

Wade Lockwood is hot as fuck.

He doesn’t need a gossip post stating how dangerous of a man he is, his features speak for themselves. He looks like he’d eat you slowly with a butter knife and a glass of expensive wine—I’m sorry whiskey—while discussing the current events of the world.

Chase: At a party, Sox?

Me: Stalker much?

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