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At Dylan’s silent encouragement, I practice how I’m going to approach the night with Tyler. For the rest of our conversation, I try to find the balance between chatting up Tyler, meeting him as a strong and intelligent equal, while at the same time staying with Dylan.
It’s hard not to want to cling to him. Not only because thisroom is full of people who are intimidating as hell, but also because Dylan is… magnetic. Even though he says little, I’m constantly aware of his presence, and when he does say something, his words carry weight.
“Raven is currently looking for a position deserving of her skills,” Dylan confides, and Tyler’s lips lift into a smile.
“I see. She doesn’t work in your firm?” His brow furrows in surprise as he looks from Dylan to me, and back.
“I’m considering all offers at the moment, Mr. Hunt,” I reply coyly.
He lets out a short laugh. “I might know someone who’s moving up the chain, leaving a gap in our trading arm.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a business card. “Here. Give me a call on Monday. We can talk details.”
The two of them chat a moment longer as I slip the card into my clutch, ignoring my racing heart and the overwhelming pride flowing through me.
I did it. I’m doing it. This is going to work.
After he leaves, Dylan gives me a look. “Easy enough?” he questions.
“Very,” I agree, although my heart is still pounding as I take in the expansive room and sea of suits and ties who suddenly seem all-too-real with the potential to hire me. “I need to think of these like job interviews, mixed with a bit of speed dating.”
Dylan’s arm tightens again on my waist, and I feel a fresh thrill go through me. “Not speed dating.”
“Not like that,” I concede easily. My heart twists at the site of a navy-blue blazer I thought I recognized. It’s not him, though. Before I can think twice, I ask, “Have you seen Evan?”
“Not yet, but when I do, I won’t tell you,” Dylan says as he leads me across the room. It’s an odd sense of relief and irritation at his admission. “I want you to appear natural. Just you being your lovely self.” The compliment isdelivered with a fair amount of charm before he goes cold, adding, “I’ll handle him. Just follow my lead.”
“Like a dance,” I tease.
“Something like that.”
He looks at me, his eyes focusing on my right eye, then left, then falling to my lips. While his gaze is there, I watch an unexpected smile bloom across his lips and feel like I’ve done something right, though all I’m doing right now is standing here. I guess that’s following his lead. Reaching up, he brushes a lock of hair behind my ear, the move reminiscent of my own habit, except his fingers teasing against my skin make my body flush.
He seems completely unfazed even though the touch nearly makes me come undone.
He takes my hand, guiding me through the crowd, and we continue mingling. As the night goes on, I find myself grateful again and again to Dylan, while simultaneously becoming more and more attracted to him.
Every person we talk to is connected. With each conversation, I highlight my skills and talents beyond what my resume might contain. I even steer some of the conversations, and as we make our way around the room, I get a glimpse of the world that Dylan Sharpe lives in.
One of wealth and power, and that revolves around whom you know.
And all the while, he’s completely at ease, giving me opportunities to shine, including me in discussions, and never leaving my side for something or someone more important.
The truth is, even with Dylan’s reassurances, several conversations that have all flowed easily, and all the acting that I can muster, I’ve spent the past hour feeling unprepared and out of place among these wealthy and powerful people. I’ve been to a number of events, but none like this. It’s top-tier invitation-only, and Evan always told me it was best not to come.
It’s not hard to deny that I’m out of place. In the lastconversation, the guy mentioned his new car… his sixth. And it’s a McLaren, simply because he wanted to complete his ‘Formula 1 Set’ consisting of a Mercedes, a Ferrari, a Honda, an Aston-Martin, a Renault, and now, a McLaren. “God help me in a couple of years. I’ll have to rent a whole garage.”
Never mind the rent for a single parking spot in his neighborhood costs more than my half of the rent for my apartment. Now I’m trying to regain my mental composure, and having Dylan’s arm helps. It’s like he sees through all the fakeness and pretentiousness, reminding me that this isjust a game.But at the same time, he understands how seriously I need to play this game to get to where I want to be.
As a tray of champagne is passed by us and we both decline, Dylan turns toward me and says, “After Faulkner’s speech, we’ll go talk to Ollie. He’s almost always notoriously late, and he’ll be able to listen after that speech is out of the way. In the meantime, relax. You’ve chatted with half a dozen senior partners and they’ve all loved you. Trust me, you’re making all the right impressions.”
I swallow, grateful for the pep talk. Comfortable with him, I lift his arm to take a peek at his watch. Nearly two hours have already slipped by. I glance around the floor again and answer him. “I hope so. And our other goal?”
It seems only fair to put a bit of effort toward that mission as well, especially considering how much he’s helped me already.
Dylan catches my hand in his own, lifting my knuckles to his lips to brush a kiss against them unbidden. “You are the talk of the event so far. You have been noticed, and while I doubt he’ll approach, I’ve kept my ears open. Just keep being yourself.” His smile has a hint of a chill, but it doesn’t intimidate me any longer.
I’ve actually come up with a trick. It’s quite similar to the ‘picture them in their underwear’ method of dealing with nerves, but it’s more along the lines of ‘picture them with magnifying glasses on that make their eyes look comicallyenlarged while they glue tiny pieces of plastic to other tiny pieces of plastic’. It seems Dylan’s little fact about himself and the model aircraft has helped me more than he probably guessed and has made him delightfully endearing, though I certainly won’t tell him that. I suspect it’d mess with his self-perception as a ruthless asshole.
The clinking of glasses and murmur of conversations fill my ear, and the crowd quiets as a man comes up to a podium at the front of the room. “Good evening,” he says, and I can hear the money in his voice. There’s a certain tone to it, a cadence and pitch that I’m familiar with.
