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It’s stereotypical, but I’ve never actually seen any of it in real life.
Or seen myself dressed like I am.
The floor to ceiling mirror just before the ballroom stops me in my tracks, and I stare, just long enough to wonder at my outfit, at myself. I look… amazing.
Every time Evan picks something out for a specific effect, I feel out of my element. Nervous. Then exactly how I am supposed to feel for the occasion. It’s infuriating how good he is at it.
In general, he’s better at coordinating fashion than I’ll ever be.
Still shocked he’s not gay.
Not that he doesn’t flirt with a few of our rich, gay clients I’ve seen him meet with the past week.
The hors d'oeuvres are like something straight out of a royal banquet. Crab cakes and things I don't even have names for, but they're all delicious.
Don’t go overboard. The last thing I need is a stomachache today.
With my little horde of treats in hand, and another glass of bubbly for good measure, I skirt around the side of the ballroom, admiring the crown molding, the tapestries, and most of all, the glossy, glittering dance floor beneath me.
They practically glow with the sunlight coming through the massive veranda doors, open to the fresh May afternoon. Just as I'm stepping outside, letting the rays bathe my arms and shoulders for a moment, I feel as much as see a familiar presence off to my left.
At first glance, he’s a run of the mill, private security guard. Suit. Stern visage. Hair pulled back neatly in a ponytail. Neat beard.
But there’s something about the way he stands. Head slightly slouched, hands clasped. No one would give him the time of day. No one should.
Until his eyes drift toward me nonchalantly.
And I know exactly who I'm looking at.
Except the eyes aren't green this time. They're brown.
Why the hell is Tell at some Senator’s daughter’s sweet sixteen?
15
HELLENA
“Tell?” I mouth silently.
He glances away conveniently, like we didn’t make eye contact.
It's definitely Tell. I try not to outright stare at him, but I can't help myself and make the decision in a split second, making a beeline for him across the grass.
“What are you doing here?” I ask softly.
“Excuse me, ma'am? The restrooms are back through the foyer.” His voice is completely different. Impressive.
“Tell. Cut it out.”
“Truly, madam, I beg your pardon.”
“Tyler,” I snap.
He scowls, his casual and bland facial expression dropping between anger and shock. “How did you?—”
“I’d recognize you anywhere.” And I realize it’s true. I shouldn’t have recognized him here.
“Great. You saw right through me again. Just pretend you’re asking me for help.”
