Page 4 of A Shore Fling
Irene snickers. “He would, but at that point, you’re gone and you won’t have to deal with it.”
“Jonathon would hate me, though.” He and I are close. I’d be sad if he were angry with me.
“No, he wouldn’t. At first, he might be annoyed, but he’ll delegate your work to someone else. Problem solved.” She slides her palms together twice, brushing away my arguments.
“You’re making it seem way easier than it would be.”
“Am I, though?” she challenges.
“Well, it’s food for thought, but it’s time to leave.” I stand, wincing as my high heels pinch my toes. “I have a feeling it’s gonna be a long night.”
CHAPTER 2
NINA
The ride takes longer than anticipated, but that’s nothing new in New York City. Our limousine pulls up in front of the modern concrete and glass building. A wave of nerves strikes me, sending my stomach careening. “I don’t know if I’m up for this,” I say, groaning.
Irene shrugs. “It won’t be that bad. I’ll stay glued to your side if you want.”
“No, you and Richard should make the most of tonight. Drink some champagne and dance.”
“Well, he’s going to be late, so I can help keep Nigel at bay for a bit.”
Our driver opens the door for us, and we carefully climb out.
“Thank you, Aaron,” we say simultaneously.
He grins. “You’re welcome. Behave yourselves in there.”
“No promises,” I trill as Irene and I hook arms and walk toward the entrance. Once inside, we follow the signs directing us to the ballroom.
“Wow,” Irene says in a dreamy sigh. “This would be perfect for a wedding reception.”
She’s right, it would be, if you’re looking for elegance with a touch of ostentatiousness.
“Add it to your list of places.”
“You mean my ever-growing list? I’m gonna need to narrow it down.”
We’ve barely entered the ballroom when Nigel appears by my side. He presses a perfunctory kiss to my cheek before his blue gaze rakes me from head to toe. “Nina, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“Thank you, Nigel. You look nice too.”
“Hi, Nigel,” Irene says, reminding him she’s there.
“Hello, Irene. Your parents are over there,” he says, pointing them out.
“Why don’t we get some drinks,” Irene suggests. She hooks her arm through mine, leading me toward the bar, effectively removing us from Nigel’s presence.
“Nicely done,” I say.
A soft giggle slips from her. “You wouldn’t know this, but I’m a great wingwoman. I’ve always been better at that role than at dating.”
There’s a line at the bar, and while we wait, we exchange pleasantries with some familiar faces. As a Moreau, my parents require my siblings and me to attend many formal events. I plaster on a fake smile and say all the right things while wishing I were anywhere else.
Irene hands me a glass of champagne, and we leave the bar area.
“I suppose we don’t have an excuse to avoid our parents any longer,” she says.
