Page 39 of Enemies

The men he considers rivals must be formidable indeed.

One of the women smiles in my direction as Harrison and her husband, who’s in media, talk global news and business. It’s a strange vibe as she leans in. “Do you model?”

I choke on my drink. “Not lately.”

“Ah. Harrison is a master at keeping beautiful women on his arm. But I suppose things change.”

Her catty tone makes me stiffen. Next to me, Harrison glances over in the middle of his sentence. As if he didn’t hear but sensed my reaction.

A hand on my back has awareness tingling up my spine.

“You know,” I say to her, “I was reading a story last week about how this wine tasting club was served the wrong wine. Instead of a thousand-dollar bottle, they got a twenty-dollar one. And they gave it rave reviews.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Quality doesn’t come from a label,” Harrison cuts in smoothly.

The fact that he was listening enough to stay on top of my conversation, not only his, has gratitude blooming in my stomach.

He leans in, brushing his lips against my ear. “Everything all right?”

“I can handle them.”

“I know you can. But that doesn’t mean you should have to.” He squeezes my arm, a brief reassurance as genuine as it is surprising.

I’m not comfortable at large events. Unless I’m performing, where I have distance from the crowd, I prefer small groups with people I know.

When I stopped going to parties in high school, around the same time I started working on my music, I figured my friends would understand.

They didn’t.

The girls who used to invite me to things turned their backs on me.

When I tried to explain that I couldn’t relax and enjoy myself, they froze me out.

Evidently our friendship was based on gushing over our older brothers’ college friends, and getting drunk enough we couldn’t remember what we did the next day.

Once neither of those things appealed to me, I stopped appealing to them.

Tonight, Harrison’s telling me he knows I’ve got this. But in case I don’t, he’s got me.

It’s that realization that has me pulling back. “I, ah, need to find a bathroom.”

I duck out, feeling his gaze between my shoulders.

On the way, I get lost and run into a distinguished-looking man in his seventies.

“Good evening. We haven’t met,” he says, reaching for my hand.

I let him take it, press a dry kiss to the back. “I was just looking for a bathroom,” I say when he releases me.

“Bien sûr. This is my house, and I can show you the way.”

“Oh! Mr. Geroux.”

“Christian, please.” He graciously spreads his hands. “Make yourself at home. I do enjoy hosting, and I’ll have fewer opportunities when I retire.”

“Then why retire at all?”

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