Page 71 of Tate
She looked away, took a breath. “Listen, if I don’t make it, I’ll try and Skype in.”
“You’re as bad as Ford.”
“No, I’m worse. Ford is going to be there. He called me from San Diego. He’s going to surprise you all.” She looked back at him and offered a conciliatory smile. “Surprise.”
He offered one back. “You’re terrible.”
“But I know all the best delivery places, right?” She gestured to his food.
“Yeah, you do.” He touched her hand.
She turned hers in his and squeezed. Met his eyes with warmth in them.
We’re already crazy about you, just because you’re you.He looked away. “I gotta go, my Uber is five minutes away.”
“What—you’ve been here a total of three hours.” She let go of his hand as he got up.
“I’m headed back to Nashville. It’s time for Glo’s silly game to end.”
“Go get ’er, tiger.” She punctuated her words with a fist and a swing of her arm.
He rolled his eyes. “Answer your phone once in a while.”
She got up and gave him a hug. “Stay out of trouble.”
Oh, there probably wasn’t a chance of that.
“I’ll try.”
She’d always known her mother’s life glittered. Glo just never realized that she might glitter with it.
Or, that she wanted to.
“You look gorgeous tonight, Gloria,” Sloan said as he opened the door to her limousine. She didn’t know when he’d stopped referring to her as Glo in public, but she noticed it now as she took his hand and climbed out of the car under the awning of the glorious and historical Hermitage Hotel in downtown Nashville. A top-hatted doorman stood at the ready, and a few flashes went off as Sloan led her to the door. He was dressed in a burgundy tuxedo jacket, this time with his collar buttoned, his bow tie perfectly symmetrical under his shaven chin.
The man looked every inch a millionaire’s son, and for the first time she saw Sloan not as the neighbor next door, but as a man who embodied the future he’d tried to unfurl in front of her.
Apparently, one he had hopes she’d want to run into with him.
She caught a glance of her reflection in the massive glass doors. She wore a strapless, royal blue satin dress that hugged her body, all the way down to her silver stilettos, a vintage diamond broach at her neck, and diamond studs at her ears.
Yeah, she’d upped her game since joining her mother’s campaign gigs. But her feet hurt, and frankly, she just might topple over if she didn’t hang onto someone.
She slid her hand over Sloan’s arm as they entered the grand lobby. Marble arches and columns supported the ornate glass ceiling overhead and bounced light from the gilded chandeliersthat hung from the four corners of the room. Sloan waved to a few reporters—handpicked journalists allowed to attend tonight’s private art auction-slash-fundraiser—and led her to the stairs where, on the balcony above, the donated pieces from local artisans were displayed. Watercolors and oils on easels, sculptures in mixed mediums on shelves and tables, and down at the end of the hallway, a crazy-looking goat made from discarded car parts.
White-gloved waiters mingled with the guests—hobnobbers from Nashville society—and offered canapes and aperitifs.
“Where is your regular hound dog?” Sloan said, leaning over to her, and she glanced at him, frowned.
“Who?”
“Your faithful bodyguard. You have a new guy.” He glanced behind him, and she followed his gaze. Rags trailed them, unobtrusively, five feet away. He met her eyes, offered a grim smile, then looked past her, on the job.
“Yeah. The other guy left.”
“Good,” Sloan said and slipped his hand over hers. “He made me want to punch him, the way he looked at you.”
Probably Tate had felt the same way. She kept her smile but felt a tinge of guilt.
