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"Oh, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?" asks a stunning brunette about my age.
"Yes."
It registers that she accidentally bumped into me—or maybe I bumped into her. But since her turquoise dress is pristine, it’s clear I got the short end of the stick. Her red wine shows on my dress. Technically, not even my dress, but Emma’s.
"It's no big deal," I say with a nervous laugh that I doubt will fool anyone. Even though my borrowed dress is red, it's a different shade than the wine. Shit.
"We'll take care of it. Come with me, there's a guest suite that way," she says, cocking her head to the side.
I follow her, not wanting to draw attention to this mishap, and she takes me to a bedroom at the end of the hall. As I enter, I realize it must be a guest room. It doesn't have pictures or personal objects, and it's pristine and clean, with a nicely made bed, a sleek TV, and other pieces of furniture.
"Okay, let’s remove that stain," she says like a woman on a mission. "Go to the ensuite bathroom, remove your dress, and slip into the robe hanging on the door."
"Oh. Do you live here?" I ask, confused.
She smiles. "No, but I know because my husband and I had too much to drink once and ended up in this bedroom."
"I see. Like you couldn't drive home?"
She blushes. "Not exactly. We visited this room… more in passing."
In passing, ha. She banged her husband in someone else's house. Envy flutters through me. I wish I had someone to bang in anyone's house. Maybe not mine—it would be weird with Dad and Moonshine under the same roof as me and my imaginary boyfriend.
I go to the bathroom, take off my dress, grab the robe, and put it on. The gray robe is fluffy, the fabric hugging me tenderly. When I return, I show her the dress. "What's your plan?"
"I'll go get some salt or baking soda. I sprinkle it on, let it soak, and the stain is gone in ten minutes or so."
I sit on the edge of the enormous bed. "I'm glad one of us knows what to do."
She shrugs and says wistfully, "My mom was a whiz at removing stains."
My heart shrinks. Sarah is about my age, give or take a year—so young to have lost her mother. I give her an apologetic smile. "Mine too. But sadly, I didn't pay much attention to those particular lessons."
She slants her head to the side, and a touch of empathy flickers in her eyes. "Oh. You lost your mom also?"
I nod.
She clutches the dress in her hands. "I'm sorry to hear that. I'll go get your dress unstained and honor both of our moms."
An easy energy bounces between us. Maybe that easy rapport would’ve happened if I had a sister. Someone to confide in. I always missed it in my childhood. "Sounds like a good plan."
"By the way… I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Sarah Harrington."
Harrington? Is she related to the guy Archer wanted to meet, Brooks Harrington?
I lower my gaze to her hand and see her wedding band right next to a ginormous engagement ring. What a small world. "Nice to meet you. I'm Hazel."
7
Archer
"And that's why we decided to take a break," Malcolm says, explaining how he and his girlfriend have ended things recently. So recently, no one knew… and maybe that's why the bastard looked at Hazel like a potential girlfriend.
Damn it. I’ve been listening to these stories for the past thirty minutes. I didn't mean to leave Hazel alone, but after I put my arm around her, my skin burned. A strange reaction, but more than anything, a reaction—alive, pulsing, running through my veins.
So I wasn’t thinking straight when I excused myself from her. I wouldn't do that to a date, but she’s my assistant. No one knows that, which is why Malcolm looked at me like I was a jerk when I left her after barely arriving at the party. Well, he knows me well enough. I’m a jerk. No doubt about it.
I checked on her once to bring her outside, but a group of women told me she’d gone with someone to remove a spill from her dress. So I knew she wasn't alone. She was fine.
