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Jules
I excuse myself to visit the ladies’ room so that I can fix any evidence of my make-out session with Dimitri. It’s a good thing, too. My lips are swollen from his kiss — my lipstick smeared all over my face. My cheeks are flushed, my hair is mussed, and my dress is riding down low in the front.
I pretend not to notice the sidelong looks from the other women in the bathroom as I finger-comb the tangles out of my hair and apply fresh lipstick. Once I’m presentable, I reenter the ballroom and cast around with a flutter of nerves in my belly.
It’s fine, I tell myself. I belong here just as much as anybody. No one knows that I almost had sex in the courtyard with my boss.
I’m just about to head to the bar to get another drink when I feel a tingle along the back of my neck and Dimitri’s warm hand along my spine.
“You are beautiful,” he rumbles in my ear, pressing his fingertips into the small of my back and sending a fresh surge of heat spilling into my belly.
Okay, so the uncontrolled feelings inside me aren’t doing much to ease my nerves, but I hold my head a little higher as Dimitri steers me toward our table.
The waitstaff is preparing to serve dinner, and the guests are beginning to find their seats. I spot Dimitri’s name scrawled in a delicate hand on a white card at the table, and to my astonishment, there’s a little card next to his that reads “Julianna Navarro, Guest.”
I blink as Dimitri pulls out my chair. The other men at the table barely spare a glance my way as I sit down, but when Dimitri takes the seat beside me, they all gruffly introduce themselves.
One is a hedge-fund manager for some big financial service company. The rest are founders of tech startups I’ve never even heard of.
“God, the help in this place is awful,” grumbles a man in a tuxedo, pulling out the seat next to mine and flopping down into it.
He looks to be around Dimitri’s age — probably in his early thirties — and his straight copper hair is gelled in a severe windswept style. His bow tie hangs undone around his neck, and he’s tucking a vape pen into his breast pocket. “I asked for a scotch and soda twenty minutes ago and nothing!”
“I’m sure they’re just busy,” says Dimitri coolly.
“Not busy doing their jobs,” the man guffaws. He withdraws the vape pen and takes a short drag. “Someone puked all over the bathroom floor, and no one’s even cleaned it up.” He shakes his head. “This place is a dump.”
I raise my eyebrows and glance at the man’s name placard. It just says “Ian Gray, Influencer,” and my stomach twists at the thought of how these people would treat me if my name card included what I do for a living.
“I’m staying at the resort,” says the hedge-fund manager, who looks to be in his mid-fifties. “Do you know they’ll only change your linens every three days unless you specifically request otherwise? I asked for extra towels when I first arrived . . . I had to call the front desk four times!”
“They’re probably understaffed, just like everywhere else,” chimes in one of the startup guys.
The hedge-fund manager snorts. “If a five-star resort can’t find help, then we’re all well and truly fucked.”
The man called Ian Gray shakes his head. “I swear, the pandemic was an absolute disaster for the service sector. Nobody wants to work anymore — not even for a wildly overinflated wage.”
“Wildly overinflated?” I repeat before I can stop myself.
The chatter at the table dies down immediately, and the men’s gazes swivel over to me. I get the feeling this is the first time they’ve really noticed me, and I can sense Dimitri’s eyes boring into the side of my head.
“Wages aren’t overinflated — at least not here,” I continue. “The cost of living in Colorado is way higher than the national average. Rent alone has gotten ridiculous. People can hardly afford to live here.”
“That’s why you don’t rent,” Ian scoffs, a slow grin spreading across his face as he glances over my shoulder at Dimitri. “Not in this state.”
There’s a round of patronizing chuckles from the other men at the table, and I’m pretty sure they’re all laughing at me.
“Owning is the thing,” Ian adds.
“Yes, but hardly anyone can afford to buy a home in this market,” I explain. “Certainly not when they’re making minimum wage.”
Ian lifts his eyebrows. “And how is that my fault?”
“It’s not,” I say hotly. “But if people can’t afford to live —”
“Then they should move somewhere less expensive.”
I shake my head at his callous comment, anger flaring in my chest. Is this man really this out of touch, or does he just not care that he sounds like an asshole?
