Page 38 of The Wrong Fiancée

With those words, he went up to Dean, and I closed my mouth, trying not to think about what his words meant.

"Elika." Theo came up to me. "How's it going?"

"Aloha, Mr. Farrell."

"Come on, Elika, you can call me Theo."

"Of course. Can I help you with something?" I asked.

"No. I just wanted to catch up. See how you're doing."

Was he kidding me? I was working here, and he wanted to chit-chat.

"I'm so sorry, but I'm working. Maybe another time?" I suggested as politely as I could.

He was immediately contrite. "You must think I'm a total asshole. You're working and I'm drinking and…sorry, Elika."

I walked back to the catering area and checked on everything—the supplies and the drinks. When one of the servers took a break, I started serving. The Thatchers had invited nearly fifty people to their shindig. Thank God for the overtime pay I’d been promised, because this was going to be a lot of work.

As I carried the caviar bites around to the guests, I made sure to keep my distance from Ginny, Dean, and Felicity. I didn’trecognize everyone, but a few stood out—Michael and Rebecca, of course, along with others who owned sprawling estates on Kauai. Then there were the usual suspects, the ones who flew in on private jets from Oahu or Maui.

I weaved through the partygoers, balancing trays of cocktails, my uniform sticking to me in the midday heat.

My eyes caught on Dean and Felicity, standing near one of the tables, laughing as Felicity sipped something sparkling and cold. They looked…happy. Felicity had changed out of her yellow sundress into a sexy orange bikini. Her sarong moved like water as she gestured wildly with her free hand while she spoke. Dean's easy smile was in place as he nodded along, his eyes focused solely on his fiancée.

I couldn't look away, even though I knew I should. It wasn't my place to feel…anything. I didn't have that right. But the sharp tug in my chest was undeniable. I wasn't supposed to be jealous of someone else's happiness—especially not theirs. I didn't want to bethatwoman. The kind who stared too long at what didn't belong to her, who wondered about all the what-ifs, who was bitter for howtheirlives were better than mine.

I managed to avoid my difficult family members until the buffet line, which stretched out across the lawn. Guests were piling their plates with roasted lamb, fresh poke, grilled mahi-mahi, and taro rolls.

I was serving the poke, which required interaction with the guests as I put it together for them.

"The mango…and the scallions," one of the guests demanded when I heard Ginny's hiss.

Let the games begin!

"How is it that you're everywhere?" Ginny demanded as she stood in front of me at the poke station.

"Aloha, Mrs. Thatcher. May I put a poke bowl together for you?"

I'm sure everyone has that point in their life where they wish they could fling something at someone's face and say,I quitand walk away. If I could afford it, I would happily bitch slap thisawful woman and be on my way. Not that I knew how to bitch slap, but I'd learn from YouTube if need be.

"No, thank you. I don't want anything that your hands touch."

"Ginny," Uncle Sam reproached softly.

"We all wear gloves, Mrs. Thatcher," I couldn't help but say. I didn't need our guests to think that I was going to give them some disease thanks to Ginny's loud remonstration.

"Ginny, move it along, darlin'. I want some poke," a drunk guest slurred from the back of the line, his voice thick and impatient.

Ginny glared at me. I kept smiling like an automaton.

I sighed in relief once they left and served guests for another five minutes before someone came to relieve me.

"Ah…Giordano wants to see you by the ballroom," my replacement, who had been pulled from the Pele's Flame, whispered.

I nodded uneasily. This wasn't good. Not good at all.

I threw my gloves into a trash can and saw Dean talking to Dante outside the ballroom. Dante was listening as Dean gesticulated. Dean turned to see me and nodded stiffly before walking away—or rather stomping away.

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