Page 32 of Sweet Caroline
“You got a game plan?” he asks, folding up the ramp. “Where is this fundraiser thing?”
“Some hotel ballroom in Seattle, I think.” I quirk a brow. “What do you mean,game plan?”
“There gonna be drinks there?” He slides the ramp into the truck bed. “You haven’t really been around other people drinking yet, right?”
I hold his gaze and shove the tailgate hard until it latches.
Right. That part.
“Maybe chat with Barry before you go?” Jude adds.
Calling my sponsor is a solid suggestion. I should probably fill him in on this Caroline thing, anyway.
“Will do,” I say with a nod, then smirk to myself as I peel off my gloves. “Bet he’ll have a laugh at the idea of my ass in a tux.”
Jude chuckles, pulling open the passenger door to his truck so Murphy can climb in. “Barry’s what, like, sixty-something?”
“Yeah, think so.”
He gives me a look. “Better make sure he’s sitting down first.”
The tuxI borrowed from Gus fits surprisingly well and, to its credit, doesn’t itch or pull on my skin in a way that’ll make me seem twitchy all night. I’ve lost count of the number of work T-shirts I’ve got with a hole in the back of the neck from where I’ve torn out an irritating tag, but this tux is pretty fucking swanky. When Gus told me he had one I could borrow, I was so grateful not to have to hunt around for a crappy rental that I’d forgotten to ask what the fuck he’s doingowning a tux. Dude must be living a second life as James Bond or some shit. Some kind of secret underground firefighter society, probably.
Do secret underground firefighter societies exist? Do they host black-tie parties?
Taking one last glance in the mirror, I shake myself out of that mental rabbit hole and straighten the bow tie I spent the last hour learning to tie. I try to stop fidgeting with everything I’m wearing, telling myself the clothes on my back are the least of my worries. Navigating this fundraiser will be enough stress on its own, no matter how much I’m looking forward to spending the evening with Caroline. I wipe my hands on my jacket, willing them to stop sweating.
Fuck, I could use a vodka. Or any drink, really.
The thought crops up, as it often does, straight outta left field—no doubt brought on by the anticipation I’m already feeling about this fundraiser.
I pull out my phone and text Barry. Sometimes just telling someone else that I’m having a craving is all it takes for the feeling to subside. It also helps me stay accountable since he’ll make a point of checking in later. Knowing I may face temptation tonight is looming large in the back of my mind, though.
My door buzzer sounds, and I press the button on the intercom.“Hey. Be right down.”
I’m too on edge to wait for the ancient elevator to chug its way to the fourth floor, so I push through the heavy fire door leading to the stairwell.
And, if the jog down three flights of stairs doesn’t leave me a bit out of breath, the sight waiting outside the front door just about does it.
Caroline faces away from the glass front doors of the lobby, her eyes trained somewhere down the dark street. Her back is nearly bare, her glittering gold dress plunging in a deep V that ends right above her ass.
Holy hell.
It’s realizing she must be freezing cold that has me pushing out the door.
“Hey.” The word comes out slightly strangled, and I clear my throat, playing it off with a grin.
She turns, her soft lips slightly parted. “Miles.” Relief rushes through me when she gives me—or Gus’ tux, maybe—a small nod of approval, but my concern about the cold quickly swings back into frame when she rubs her arms and I notice the goose bumps dotting her skin.
“Jesus, you’re gonna turn into an ice cube out here. C’mon.” Without thinking, I slip my palm over her bare lower back,guiding her into the idling town car in front of us, but pull my hand away when the warmth of her skin spreads under my fingertips. I hadn’t meant to touch her like that; I’m not thinking straight here.
This fucking dress.
I can already tell it’ll be impossible to stop staring at her for the rest of the night—and I’ve only been with her for thirty seconds.
Shit.
I make a conscious effort to shove down the inkling that it’s not just the dress flustering me.
