Page 169 of The Keeper

The amount of money walking around this room draped in designer couture and tailored suits could sustain a small nation for at least a decade. I realize I sound like a hypocrite since my family amassed a rather impressive fortune, but still. Seeing it flaunted around like this was nauseating.

I smiled at the young woman working the complimentary bar when she handed a dirty martini to me. We’d chatted while she prepared my drink. I learned she went to NYU and wanted to become a prosecutor. And then possibly the state Attorney General. She’s probably the most interesting and real person in here. I made sure to leave a generous tip in the glass she’d set up next to the napkins.

Killian and Maxim were somewhere in the crowd, schmoozing and impressing and networking. I’m glad I came with them but I wasn’t quite in the mood to talk about myself or my job or oh-my-god-where-did-you-get-those-heels.

So, I took my martini and went out on the terrace.

The night air drenched me in a cool, calm quiet. I walked farther out until I found a hightop table hidden from view. Very few people were out here so I was able to claim this space just for me.

I sipped on my drink, pulling out the skewer of olives and sliding one off with my teeth. The late spring breeze played with my full length silk dress, brushing it against my skin and teasing the skirt. Killian had gushed over the high slit that climbed up my left thigh.

“You’re going to give some bloated sixty-five year old millionaire a painful hard on in that,” he’d said on the ride over.

Probably.

Not really my problem though.

My hand instinctually went to my neck. A brief moment of panic sliced through me when I didn’t feel Xavier’s ring. Then I remembered I put it on a longer chain, so it nestled closer to my cleavage. Or my heart.

Soft peals of laughter sounded behind me. I heard footsteps shuffling off toward a section of the terrace filled with small trees, shrubs, and other seasonal plants. In front of me, Manhattan shimmered and sparkled like the global superstar it is.

More footsteps, more muffled conversations.

My shoulders slumped, knowing this meant guests were starting to wander out here and my precious solitude would end. I lifted the skewer of olives from the martini again, sliding another off with my teeth.

Another set of footsteps slowed and stopped behind me. I closed my eyes, wishing whoever it was would go away.

“So, Victoria is it?”

The sound of a rich, elegant baritone voice stole my breath. I opened my eyes and turned, fully expecting this to be some sort of prank.

Striking cobalt irises framed dark pools that focused solely on me. Tousled brown hair rustled in the breeze. Light spilling down from the top of the building illuminated his handsome face and sultry, pouty mouth.

My lips parted in silence as I drank in every tuxedo clad inch of him.

A tuxedo.

Xavier Maddox, the tattooed, smoldering goalkeeper who likes to talk dirty was standing in front of me in a tuxedo. Or as he’s more commonly known these days, Xavier Maddox, the Guy Who Ghosted His Girlfriend.

His hands were tucked casually in his pants pockets. An expression of absolute amusement spread across his face.

“Is that not your name?” he inquired. “Could have sworn it was.”

I blinked. It took me a second before I replied, “Depends on who’s asking.”

He sauntered closer, standing in front of me. Now that I could smell him, this became much too real. Much too immediate and insistent and consuming.

And then he smiled and I lost it.

Three weeks worth of suppressed sadness and anger and confusion seeped out of me in the form of tears. Way too many tears.

His expression fell.

“Hey,” he whispered, pulling me into a hug. “Oh, Tori. I’m so sorry.”

I cried into his shoulder.

I cried in my fancy silk dress at this stupid, fancy fundraiser.

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