Page 24 of Saddles & Suits

Oh—he’s clever. Peter has a handful of hotels in the Pacific Islands, and if I recall correctly, one of them was affected by a hurricane last year. “Yes,” I confirm. “I know the three-and-a-half-hour flight time from New Zealand to here doesn’t seem like much, but in the aftermath of a natural disaster, every minute is precious. Getting an advance team on site even a few hours sooner can make a huge difference.”

Peter’s nodding. “I understand exactly what you mean. That’s definitely on the cards for next year?”

“I’m already well into talks with the proper authorities in New Zealand,” I confirm. “We should have sign-off by February, and we’ll move fast after that to get everything set up and staff onboarded and trained before storm season sets in later in the year.” I shrug. “The more money we raise tonight, the faster we’ll be able to move.” There’s no point being coy. Everyone here knows what I want from them.

“Interesting.” His mouth pulls up in a smile. “I’ll go find your lovely assistant, shall I, and see how much faster I can get you moving.”

“That would be deeply appreciated. She’s talking to the band.” We shake hands, and then he offers his to Seb.

“Have Jack bring you to the tennis,” he invites. “My wife and I get a suite and make a day of it. You’re good to talk to.”

“Thanks,” Seb says serenely. “You too.”

Peter chuckles and walks off in the direction of the band, pausing once to say hello to someone.

“You impressed him,” I say, grinning, and he pulls a face.

“We’ll see how much, though. But honestly, I liked him. He seemed to have a good grip on what actually happens in his hotels. I wouldn’t say no if you wanted to go to the tennis.” He pauses. “What did he mean by a suite, though? Like, they get a hotel suite for an afterparty?”

“No, they get a private suite at Rod Laver, at center court. Usually a few times—once early on, to spend the whole day there, and then again for the finals, both men’s and women’s. His wife was a professional tennis player when she was young, and she’s still very involved with the sport here in Australia.”

His jaw drops. “Really? Would I know her?” He looks around as if trying to spot a celebrity, and I try not to laugh.

“Probably not. That was twenty-five years ago, and she wasn’t a huge name. She’s nice, though, and a big advocate for women in sports.”

“I’ll probably like her,” he decides, and I resist the urge to kiss him. “What—” The music ends, and he cuts himself off and glances toward the band. “Ohh. Is it time for your speech?”

“Yep. Wanna come up there with me?”

The expression on his face is pure panic, and this time I do laugh.

“Asshole,” he mutters, but he’s smiling. “Go on, time for you to wow everyone.”

“I’ll be back soon,” I promise. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“And miss your speech? No way, mate.” He winks at me, and I take the high from it up onto the stage with me.

There’s no need for me to call for attention—this isn’t that kind of event. When people see me standing by the microphone, conversations die down.

“Good evening, and thank you all so much for coming to our ball this year. It makes me so happy to see your faces and know you care as much about disaster relief as we do.” They don’t, of course—they’re here to see and be seen, and becausenotattending might make people think they weren’t invited, and that would be a social slap. But as long as they’re here with open wallets, I don’t care. Instead, I launch into my ninety-second summary of our plans for the next year and how they can help us with them. I could easily talk for half an hour or more on this subject, but people can’t donate money when they’ve been bored to sleep.

“And now, before we show you a short video on what we’ve achieved this year”—heavy on the footage of families and children whose homes were destroyed and who we helped—“I’d like to take a brief moment in memory of my Uncle Warwick. Most of you knew him or knew of him. The foundation was his baby, and he ran it with every ounce of passion he had until I pried it from his steely grip six years ago.” A low murmur of laughter runs through the crowd. “Uncle Warwick sadly passed away earlier this year, and it seems only fitting that we pay him tribute tonight. He was a great man and one of my favorite people. To Warwick.”

“To Warwick,” they chorus, lifting their glasses. I even spot one woman dabbing away tears, which seems excessive. My speech wasn’t emotional.

I step away from the microphone as the wall screen comes to life, showing a montage of photos and videos from the disaster sites we attended this year. Sarah joins me by the side of the stage.

“That was lovely,” she murmurs. “Now, that’s it. You’re done. I can handle the rest of the official stuff tonight.”

I blink at her. “But?—”

“Nope. I’m serious. Go enjoy the rest of the night with your man.”

“Are you sure?” My feet are itching to take her up on the offer, but my conscience insists I check.

“Go before I change my mind,” she threatens, and I grin at her.

“Take Monday off,” I order. “You earned it.”

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