Page 11 of 3 Stolen Kisses

That’s part of the promise: the privacy thing. No risk of stray phones or leaks to the press from some gossipy college student working a pop up bar. Once in a while a guest will complain, but not for long. Not when they see how wild things get when everyone can finally let loose, unwatched.

“Another drink, sir?”

“Can I top you up, miss?”

“Champagne?”

My face feels waxy from smiling below my mask, but at least serving drinks passes the time. It makes Dad happy, too. And it keeps me in the brightly lit kitchen, away from shadowy corners and groping hands, right where Saxon can keep an eye on me.

Saxon.

Biting hard on my lip, I pour another glass of champagne. Every time I feel the head of security’s eyes on me tonight, warm shivers coast under my skin. Is he near?

“Having a good night, sweetheart?”

Dad’s glowing from booze, his bald head shiny with sweat, and his steps are a little wobbly as he swaggers toward me in the kitchen. He’s dressed in a white tuxedo with a black pocket square and bow tie, and his mask looks like a white wolf. There are lipstick marks on his neck, too, but I forcibly wipe those from my brain.

“Sure. Want another drink?”

There’s no point telling my Dad I’d rather be holed up in my bedroom all night than down here serving, like when I was a teenager. Reading fan fiction for my favorite TV shows and snacking on a big bowl of popcorn.

He knows. I’ve told him a hundred times, but he insists that I come to these parties regardless. Says it’s about showing a united Wainwright family front.

Except… what is sounitedabout him wandering off with some strange woman for most of the night, or gallivanting with his guests, while I serve drinks in the kitchen? Our masks don’t even match. His is a wolf, and mine is a black kitty cat.

The next glass I pour is sloppy, my movements jerky with resentment, and bubbly fluid sloshes onto the kitchen tiles by our feet.

“Whoops,” Dad says cheerfully, reaching back to grab a cloth from near the sink. I open my mouth to thank him for cleaning up, but then he nudges the cloth into my hand. “Better wipe that up before someone slips. Thanks, sweetheart.”

By the time I crouch down carefully in my tight gray dress and heels, gripping the marble counter for balance, Dad is long gone. Doesn’t he realize how hard this is in this outfit? Would it have killed him to help?

Two large black leather shoes stride across the kitchen tiles, coming to a stop mere inches away. Just like that, my bad mood melts away like a spring frost, and I’m already grinning when Saxon squats beside me.

“Give me that,” he mutters, plucking the cloth from my hand. He swipes it across the puddle, mopping up the spilled champagne with cranky movements. “Who are you, Cinderella? Jesus Christ.”

He’s not mad atme, he’s pissed off at Dad. God, I love when Saxon gets grumpy on my behalf, bristling with irritation behind his short beard. It’s such a thrill.

And I’ve missed him this week. He’s barely looked in my direction since our secret K-I-S-S, even if itwasthe most chaste peck on the lips the world has ever seen. Dad probably wouldn’t even care if he knew, and yet Saxon acts like we got busy in the backseat of that borrowed SUV.

If only.

But I can’t be mad that he’s avoiding me, because he blushes too. Every time I’ve walked past Saxon this week, his cheeks have flushed pink above his beard. It’s the cutest freaking thing I’ve ever seen.

“Hello, stranger,” I purr at him, laughing when Saxon flushes around the edges of his mask. On Dad’s orders, even the security team are wearing masks tonight—plain black and utilitarian, but masks all the same.

Saxon shoots me a look as he scrubs the tiles. “Behave.”

There go those warm shivers again, coasting down my limbs; there’s that excited, fizzy feeling in my stomach. When Saxon holds out a hand to help me stand up, I cling to his strong fingers like I’ll never let go. The swooping sense of vertigo I get—that’s not head rush from standing up too quickly. No, sir.

That’s all Saxon. Being near him again, feeling his heat. Smelling the soap on his skin.

And maybe Iwon’tlet go. Maybe I’ll climb this man like a lemur scaling a tree, and I’ll wrap myself around his big trunk and refuse to ever be peeled off again. Maybe I’ll live up there on his broad shoulders, or make a nest in his beard.

“Alison,” Saxon says in warning when I just stand there, holding his hand.

Huffing, I let go and step back.

Reality bites.

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