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I growl against my glass.
“She’s good,” Alexandra says.
What?
Oh... conversation. I need to focus.
“Very,” I say, then clear my throat from my rough response. “Obviously trained.”
I turn away and hate that I cannot watch her any longer, but it’s becoming difficult. I take another sip and meet Alexandra’s studying gaze.
“How has the first week been?” she asks.
“Payton is fitting in well. I admit, I think I underestimated her. Or rather, judged her too quickly based on her first day appearance.”
“That’s music to my ears. Payton has briefed our creatives and worked long nights with the team to get a pitch ready.”
I nod. “Excellent.”
I do a mental check at who is within earshot before I ask my next question. Because I’m almost certain I know the answer.
“Is your date here? You should be on the dance floor.”
It’s so obvious I almost want to slap myself.
“I think you know my date is already dancing,” she says, a little softer than usual.
I wriggle my jaw, fury building inside me.
My father has the audacity to dictate who I fuck while bringing a date to a work function - after my mother just died four or so years ago—and is dancing with a twenty-three-year-old in front of her.
In front of me.
With Payton. Who shouldn’t matter to me, but apparently she god damn does.
Fuck, I should have stayed home.
I toss back my drink.
“Excuse me,” I say and stride away.
