Page 26 of Catfish

Chase: It’s only stalker if I ask for the address.

I glance over the room, looking for the man that could pose for GQ. Who's still going to get a nasty little glare from my pretty eyes at his impertinence.

I might work in this world of the entitled, rich, and vulgar, but it doesn't mean I have to be okay with it. Especially when it's uncalled for, and you're not even supposed to be here.

A cloud of smoke in the air grabs my attention, exhibiting a group of suited men, puffing on cigars, and looking bored as hell.

Especially the man I’ve been on the hunt for.

Then maybe you shouldn’t have crashed the party, asshole.

From what I can see of him, his black suit fits him like a glove. He’s tall, his broad shoulders alluding that he’s young, powerful, can throw you against a wall easily.

My nostrils flare.

Cool it, Rea. We’re not seeking the man out to fuck him, we’re hunting him down to throw some shade.

And explain that when you come to an event, you RVSP. Or don’t come if you’re not invited.

I’m suddenly stopped by a woman dressed in a red gown that clashes with her pale skin, smelling of floral perfume that quickly assaults my stomach.

Nose plugs—I meant to pick some of those up because apparently bathing in your perfume is a new trend around the socialites of Bridgeport.

She carries on with multiple questions about my services and compliments the party. I thank her and nod, finally able to pry myself out of the conversation when I tell her I need to use the restroom.

Lockwood, meanwhile, is still conversing, yards away from me, still my not-so-innocent victim.

At this angle, I get the real-life side of his face. Pictures—they don’t do this man justice. Thank God I don’t have high expectations of him already because I might have a pool of drool at my feet right now.

Clean-shaven, perfectly fitted tux, his deep voice carries, and it'd move right between my legs if I wasn't wasting my time right now with him.

Which I am.

“You must be the party planner.”

Can anyone else bug me tonight with the same greeting?

Gracefully, a small blonde barricades herself in between me and my target. Her smile is perfect, with dimples and white teeth.

“Did your assistant grab Mr. Lockwood’s drink?”

“My partner mentioned it,” I state through my teeth. “And I had to run my caterer out on an errand to get some."

AKA: you both are a pain in my ass right now.

She claps her petite hands together, not noticing or caring that I’m clearly annoyed here. "You. Are. Amazing." She then shoves a hand in my direction. "I'm Emmy Lou, and I've heard such good things about you.”

“Thanks,” I reply as nicely as I can, returning her handshake. “I didn’t see Mr. Lockwood on the guest list and—”

“Ugh, I apologize,” she groans with a slight shake of her head. “We just fired his secretary because she was horrific at scheduling events and RSVPing. Mr. Lockwood missed a tutoring session with a child who was trying to learn English, isn’t that horrible?”

“Tutoring—” My brows snap together as I watch the flawless Emmy Lou in a nude-colored dress almost bounce on me with her next words.

“He was devastated about it.”

My God, she’s spunky.

And a damn liar.

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