Page 128 of Not A Whisper

“You like older women, Grant? Have you made her purr yet? Do cougars even purr?”

“Ma’am! Ma’am, what’s your name? Do you typically date younger men? How did you meet?”

“Are rumors of Carmilla seeing someone else true, Grant? Is your date a rebound chick?”

“Jason Nani, good to see you back! Who’s Grant’s date?”

Mentally, I make a note to never criticize a celebrity’s momentary lapse of judgment when they strike out or yell at the paparazzi. No wonder Trip wanted nothing to do with this. It’s over the top. This isn’t even a celebrity event. It’s just a bunch of rich people with too much money and a need for a tax write-off. My fingers weave through Grant’s. His grip tightens on me as he chuckles and nods toward the flashing lights.

We’re halfway down the red carpet when someone gasps.

“Look at thatringon her hand! Wait, Grant, is this yourwife?”

There’s a collective gasp before we’re bombarded with a hundred new questions. Behind us, Jason laughs. At least someone’s having fun.

“Grant, did you steal another man’s wife?”

“Ma’am, did you?—”

The three of us step inside the hotel and the doormen shut the glass doors behind us, muffling the shouting and questions. I’m pretty sure one of them gives me a pitying look as I pass him. Relieved I’m no longer in the line of fire, I let out a shaky breath.

“Well,thatwas fun,” I mutter.

“Get used to it, Mrs. Wilson-Gipson, Groveton loves talking about our family,” Grant says, keeping his voice low as he steers us toward three hotel staff members waiting to take our jackets.

I frown at that. “If that’s the case, how come they never bother you at school?”

“Oh they did. Right up until I threatened to sue them for harassment.”

Grant takes my shawl and hands it off to a young woman who blushes wildly under his gaze. She disappears into a small room, and returns with a slip of paper with a number on it. Grant takes it with a nod.

Jason comes up to my other side as we turn and follow the directional signs that indicate where we’re supposed to go. He doesn’t touch me, but his proximity is closer than what someone would deem friendly. Though my hand is filled with my clutch, I still reach out and brush it against his. He looks down, giving me his ultra dazzling grin that deepens his dimples to the max.

Men and women dressed up like us are meandering toward a set of large double doors down a wide hallway. We follow a little way back. As we approach, I catch sight of Trip. He’s lingering a short distance away from the small podium that two attendants are standing behind, checking names as party attendees arrive. The sour expression he wears doesn’t soften as he pushes off the wall and joins us.

“About damn time.” He glances at me. A hard half-smile curves one side of his mouth. “You’re walking funny, dollface.”

I scoff then roll my eyes as Jason and Grant snicker. “I am not.”

“Sure, whatever you say.”

Grant ushers us toward the open doors. Behind us, I hear Jason mutter to Trip, “Remember to smile. You’ll scare people off, and we’re here to network.”

“They’ll get what they get.”

I bite back my grin at Trip’s response. There will be no ass kissing from Trip this evening.

Quickly, we check in and step inside. The massive ballroom has been decorated with deep navy-blue drapes, darkening the space. Gold and white accents are sprinkled about, from the tablecloths and place settings, to the balloons, streamers, and tinsel.

The space is separated into two sections with tables on one side and a dance floor on the other. A stage with a deep navy-blue backdrop and fancy oak podium sits on the other side of the dance floor. The large room is already filled with people. Some people are seated, some stand between the tables. The majority of people, however, are congregating out on the dance floor in small groups. Over the buzz of conversation and soft music coming from the band in the corner by the stage, laughter occasionally peppers the air.

Grant drags me toward the dance floor but stops us as a couple, both with blond hair and blue eyes, appears at our side. At a quick glance, they look to be in their early sixties, though Botox and a great skin care regimen seem to have kept them looking relatively youthful for their age. Both flash the four of us near identical smiles that are a little too white and stand out against their unnaturally tanned skin.

“Grant Gipson,” the man says, offering Grant his hand. Grant takes it easily. “I’m glad I caught you before I’m swept away by hosting duties. I wanted to thank you properly for your donation on top of Garry’s. It was extremely generous. We haven’t seen a donation like this in years.”

“Good evening, Bruce, Lydia. Actually, the donation has nothing to do with Garry, nor was it just from me,” Grant corrects pleasantly. “It’s from GBN Enterprises.”

The man, Bruce, blinks rapidly as if he’s unsure of what he’s just heard. “GBN? Isn’t that the company that Garry’s been?—?”

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