Page 11 of Hooked on Dallas
The next week flies by in a blur of activity as I organize the charity gala. I tour over a dozen venues, haggling with the managers over prices and availability. I spend hours on the phone chasing down vendors, trying to find the best deals on everything from catering to decor. And in between, I am recruiting volunteers from the firm to help on the actual night of the event.
It is exhausting, frustrating work at times. The florist keeps changing their mind about what flowers will be in season, the band is making constant demands, and several people back out of volunteering at the last minute. I am ready to tear my hair out.
But with each obstacle overcome, I could my confidence growing. I am learning how to navigate tough conversations, handle crises, and motivate people to rally behind a common goal. Mr. De La Cruz checks in on my progress, his gaze sharp, and I know he is testing me, watching for any signs of weakness or incompetence.
I am determined not to crack under the pressure. This is my chance to prove I have what it takes to advance in my career, andI refuse to mess it up. Each time I smooth over another issue, my satisfaction grows. I am going to knock this gala out of the park if it kills me! And when Mr. De La Cruz sees the results of all my hard work, he will have no choice but to see my true potential.
7
Laura
The chandelier crystals tinkles above as I step into the grand ballroom, my heels clicking on the marble floor. I smooth the front of my red satin dress and take a steadying breath.
After a week of planning, the charity gala is here. But my nerves aren’t because of the event itself. No, they are all thanks to the man walking in beside me.
Mr. De La Cruz cuts a dashing figure in his tux, his tall frame filling out the classic cut to perfection. I risk a glance up at him and had to stifle a gasp. He shaved for the occasion, revealing a firm jaw and dimpled chin I’ve never seen before.
Good grief, he looks like a movie star. How am I supposed to concentrate when my boss turned out to be secret eye-candy?
I tear my gaze away and survey the room, desperate for a distraction. Crystal chandeliers light up the high ceilings in a warm golden glow and round tables drape in ivory linens to fill the space, each set for eight.
“Quite the production,” Mr. De La Cruz rumbles, glancing around with an approving eye. “You’ve outdone yourself, Stevens.”
I flush under the praise, equal parts pleased and annoyed at how easily he can discompose me. “Thank you, sir, but it was a team effort. Shall we greet the guests?”
He tucks my hand into the crook of his arm, an intimate gesture that makes my heart stutter. “Lead the way.”
As we make our rounds, I grow aware of how well we complement each other. His presence is commanding yet unobtrusive, allowing me to shine as a hostess while still deferring to him as my escort.
I face the truth. Against all odds, the man I once found so intimidating now feels like a perfect partner in crime. And as the first strains of music fill the room, I hope the night would never end.
We take our seats at the head table as the first course is served, a seasonal salad with goat cheese croquettes.
“This is lovely,” Mr. De La Cruz says, eyeing his plate. “You have excellent taste, Stevens.”
“As do you,” I say before I can stop myself. His gaze flickers up, a smile tugging at his lips. My cheeks flame and hastily add, “In music, I mean. You were right about the string quartet being a perfect choice.”
“Were we not just discussing your penchant for Tchaikovsky?” he asks, a teasing lilt to his voice. “I believe you compared his symphonies to ‘audible chocolate.’”
I groan, mortified he remembered my fanciful turn of phrase. “Please forget I said that. I’m afraid I get a bit carried away at times.”
“Nonsense. I find your passion refreshing.” His eyes glint with amusement and something warmer, more intimate. “And your analogy was quite apt. His music is decadent, layered, meant to be savored.”
My heart stutters at the intent in his gaze. I duck my head to hide my blush, fiddling with my napkin to buy time. Is it possiblehe views me as more than his assistant? The idea both thrills and terrifies me.
Our conversation turn to lighter topics as the meal progresses. Beneath the polite veneer, something is simmering between us, waiting to be uncovered. The thought makes me tremble with nerves and anticipation. By the time we rise to open the floor for dancing, I can scarcely breathe. Whatever this is between us, the night is no longer ending soon enough.
As the band begins the first strains of Moonlight Sonata, Mr. De La Cruz turns to me. “Would you care to dance, Ms. Stevens?”
I stare up at him, stunned. “I’m afraid I don’t know how.”
“Nonsense.” He grasps my hand and waist, pulling me close. “Just follow my lead.”
His cologne envelopes me as we move across the floor, my heart pounding so loudly I am certain he can hear it. But if he did, there is no indication, gazing down at me with a soft smile.
“You’re a natural,” he murmurs. My steps falter at the praise, warmth flooding my cheeks.
“Only because I have such a capable partner,” I say. His hand tightens on my waist and I bite back a gasp.
