Page 1 of Howl You Doin?
Prologue
Whitley Whitt
See you next Tuesday.
“Thirty minutes,”I whisper under my breath. “Thirty more minutes and I will have a book in my hand. My ass will be firmly planted in lavender-scented bubbles, and I can forget this night ever happened.”
“What?” George asks, practically shouting over the heavy bass and cacophony of voices filling the crowded ballroom. Him and his dog are guests of the castle, at least for the next few weeks while they visit and tour Romania. His white suit bunches around his shoulders as he pushes his pug, Fifi, into a waiting server’s arms. The little rascal ran away earlier, and I’m glad he was found safe.
“I said it looks so nice!”
I paste a polite smile on my lips and drift my gaze across the party goers, making sure to avoid eye contact with anyone. I never know how much is too much at these sorts of things, and usually end up staring at people like a freak. The creepy castle ishuge and there are so many rooms I don’t even attempt to keep up with them all—I just want to go read.
Twenty-nine minutes, man. I’ve got this.
My feet hurt, the soles of them throbbing up through my calves, while my back aches from carrying heavy trays to waiters throughout the day. I’m too tired for this. Why did I let George drag me from the kitchen?
If I didn’t need this job at this weird-as-fuck hotel, I would have scooted my ass away from here weeks ago when I realized what kind events the owners like to host.
The low bass of the music thumps through my body, making my legs jitter. I glance up at the ornate ceilings painted with cherubs, a spray of purple and blue lights casting them in unnatural colors for the grand opening that I know George had a hand in color coordinating.
“Come on, Whitley, just one drink. You need to let loose a little,” the diminutive man says once we reach one of the small tables, and I fold like a lawn chair.
George is seriously the sweetest man alive, so of course when he asked me to come help him with something, I didn’t hesitate. If I had known that his idea of help is downing vodka, I probably would have reconsidered. The hopeful expression on the white-haired man’s face is my doom.
“Maybe just some water?” I blurt out. Surely an hour won’t kill me after all.
He shimmies a bit, nudging me lightly while dancing in place. “Yesss, woman! You will have the best time. Everyone has been fed, and I know you were up at five this morning. Now here.”
A drink is pushed into my hand, and I’m unceremoniously shoved into a chair.
My stomach leaps into my chest and my pasted-on smile makes another appearance when I catch the eyes of the peoplearound the table. Men.A lot of men. Belatedly, it registers that George is more interested in getting me laid than drunk.
I barely withhold a groan. Ugh, why did I tell him how long it’s been?
“You just sit your pretty little butt down and hydrate.” I notice George winking from the corner of my eye before I glance around the table, my face heating at the welcoming murmurs of everyone seated. “Meet my new friends.”
A brown-haired man with nice lips meets my gaze, and a tiny flame of desire sparks.
Oh. It’s been so long I can barely remember what dick looks like. Two years since my divorce and, in that time, I’ve only managed to hang onto two boyfriends long enough to make it to a bed, but neither lasted more than a few months.
George nudges my shoulder. I realize the guy’s mouth has been moving and I’ve missed what was said.
“I am so sorry.” I lean forward across the table. “I didn’t quite catch that. Can you please repeat it?”
I stuff down the unease from so many new faces, but before I can ask anyone their name, a hand encircles my arm and I’m pulled to my feet. My gaze clashes with Mr. O’Doyle’s, maître d’ of the castle, who looks like he’s about ready to commit murder.
“What the fuck are you doing out here?” he hisses near the side of my head where only I can hear, glaring at me. His nostrils flare and his irises are like glittering chips of blue ice.
“Hello, Mr. O’Doyle. Nice to see you too,” I say loudly, then I narrow my gaze. “What do you mean, what am I doing out here?”
My brows go up as I try to get a glimpse of the dining area just over his shoulder, expecting to see smoke or fire from somewhere with how upset he looks. The last time he looked this pissed, I left a cupcake outside his study to annoy him—one cupcake equals explosion, after all. The man despises cupcakes.
“Doyle, honey. She’s been on her feet all night and really deserves a drink,” George tells him over the music. “The dinner has been so nice. Hasn’t it, fellas?”
The other table occupants murmur in agreement, and Mr. O’Doyle scowls.
“Thank you, George. If I could borrow Miss Whitt for a moment?” he says in a strong British accent that I don’t have to fight to hear since I’m practically in his arms.
