Page 58 of Scoring Grey

As the butler walks away, Wells leans in and says, “I’ve had about enough of this pretentious bullshit. Join me at the table so we can get this over with.”

“Okay,” I say, picking up my glass to follow.

“Father, how about we sit? I’m sure the staff is anxiously rushing around the kitchen to keep things warm as the cocktail hour has run over.” He doesn’t wait for a response. Instead, he heads for the table. “Besides, I’m intrigued to see this incredibly dismal portrait of flowers,” he says with a playful, sympathetic smile. “Allow me.” Wells pulls out my chair, and I sit. I don’t need to look at Blair to know her eyes scrutinize my every move. I can feel the fire in her glare heating my back as she frustratedly taps her black nail against her glass.

As expected, the crowd in attendance follows Wells’s lead. Everyone takes their seats, and Cal comes around the table to sit across from Wells and me, Blair trailing one step behind him, her hand on his sports coat. I can’t help but roll my eyes. Even after the revelations I shared, she still keeps up the act. The more I watch, the more I question if it’s out of spite or delusion. I want to put her in her place so badly, but right now I have to endure. I need to buy myself some more time with fake small talk.

All eyes are on us as everyone is seated at a long table with cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. My eyes immediately find Cal’s, and my heart skips a beat. God, I’ve missed him. I expected to see the same longing in his eyes that I feel in my chest, but he drops my gaze, leaving my eyes to flick to Blair’s. We are literally polar opposites. I have shoulder-length blond hair, whereas hers is long and brown. She’s tan. I’m pale. I have blue eyes, and hers are shit brown like her personality. I like to believe I don’t hate people; rather, I strongly dislike them, but knowing her sneer six years ago as she sat on my man’s lap was all part of her ugly, senseless, mean-girl tactics to take something from me: I hate her.

I disengage before I do something stupid and lose my shit and shift my focus to the other guests. I’m no stranger to prestigious, entitled fuckery, but it’s always good to count your circle so you know your foe.

Wells leans in. “The couple sitting to the right of my father are major donors with friends with deep pockets. His wife likes to help decorate.”

I reach for my napkin and place it on my lap, and Wells rests his arm atop the back of my chair.

“To the left are my mother’s friends, Barb and Sherry. They met through this event as guest speakers for the cause, and since you already know Callum Balfour, I assume you know the other half of the table.”

The entire team isn’t here. Only a handful of the guys are present. All of them I know to be friends of Cal’s except for one: Austin.

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

My eyes swing back to our end of the table, and when they do, my gaze finds Cal’s intently fixed on me. I give him a soft smile, and he raises a brow before leaning back in his chair and dropping his arm over Blair’s chair just as Wells rests his over the back of mine. I clench my jaw in annoyance. I can’t believe he’s playing this game of tit-for-tat right now, or I can. It reeks of the shit we used to pull on each other in high school.

My phone vibrates in my clutch, and I discreetly pull it out and check the message under the table. It’s from Dash. When I swipe it open to read the text, my eyes are not met with words but rather a picture, and not just any picture, a damning one. It’s a picture of Blair holding her heels and leaning in to kiss a man as she leaves a hotel room, time stamped four days ago. The same day the picture of her and Cal was released to the press. I zoom in on the photo. You can’t see his face, but you can see his hand as he rests it on her hip, and that’s how I know it’s not Cal. The man in the picture has a very distinguishable tattoo of a black widow on top of his hand. Austin.

Eloise: That’s great, but where are you???

I told him not to make any stops. He was to go straight to the store and then come straight here. No distractions. This is most definitely a distraction.

Dash: Relax. I just pulled into the driveway. Are you going to come and get it?

Eloise: No, we just sat for lunch. We’re in the greenhouse around back. You can drop it off and leave.

I look over to the right, where I’m sure I saw a set of French doors leading to the garden, and when I do, I catch Wells glancing at my lap. Did he see my text? If so, he saw the picture, and I’m sure he’s put together that the guy in it was not Callum Balfour. Shit. Before I have time to worry about it, all heads turn as the door leading from the outdoor garden opens rather than one of the interior doors and now all eyes are on Dash. His nervous eyes find mine, and I offer him a tight smile of apology.

“Are you lost?” Mr. Bronson asks.

“Oh, um, no.” I stand from my chair. “He’s actually with me.” I straighten my dress and walk to meet him and collect the painting I had Iverson overnight for today’s lunch.

“Thank you,” I say as I reach for the box I know contains my meaningful grand gesture. “I owe you.”

“Eloise, who’s your friend?” Mrs. Bronson asks.

I close my eyes and pinch my lips before slowly turning around. “This is the friend I was telling you about, the one I got stuck in that highway mess with…” I pause, trying to find a way to explain the package in my hands without spoiling what I have. “I forgot something back at the house and he brought it for me.”

“Well, we have more than enough food. Please stay.” Mrs. Bronson smiles as she gestures toward the table where everyone is sitting, drawing my eyes to Cal’s. The scowl he’s wearing and the menacing look in his eyes tell me what I already know: Dash Westin is the last person he wants to see right now.

I turn around and Dash flashes everyone his stupidly handsome boyish grin and runs his hand through his dirty-blond hair, giving them a wave.

“Sorry… Can you stay?” I ask softly.

He pulls me to his side and puts his mouth against my temple. “I told you to use me. Lucky for you, I don’t have any plans for lunch, and I’m hungry, so I don’t mind being your plus-one.”

“Thank you,” I say under my breath.

We walk back to the table together and I set my box behind my chair as Mrs. Bronson asks, “Does your handsome friend have a name?”

“This is Dash Westin. We’ve been friends for a long time.” I gesture for him to take my seat. “Here, sit. I’ll grab another?—”

---