Page 33 of Dirty Boss

Alba was all business. “Hillary sent me the invitation from the Noble Foundation Gala. It’s a white-tie event this year,” she noted.

The fact that she said “this year” implied that she knew about previous years’ dress codes. Unsurprising, but it still sent a thread of insecurity through me. If this was the type of person I’d be surrounded by, how could I possibly hold my own?

“What will you be wearing?” she asked.

“A tux,” I said, shrugging slightly.

Alba arched a brow. “With an evening jacket, waistcoat, and white bowtie?”

“Sure.”

“The correct answer is, ‘Yes, absolutely.’”

“Yes, absolutely,” I parroted.

She huffed, and I could tell she was holding back from laughing. “We’ll have to have a look at your outfit. And your date will have to be in a floor-length gown, maximum formality.”

“Right,” I said, not mentioning that I didn’t have a date, nor did I know anyone who would be comfortable at that kind of event.

I was out of my depth—again. But I was here to learn.

I watched Alba when the waiter came back. She was unfailingly polite, but she didn’t treat him like an equal ora friend. There was no joking the way customers did at the restaurant where she’d worked.

The waiter showed her the bottle of wine, then opened it tableside. He poured a drop into her glass, let her taste it, then poured mine and topped hers up.

When we were alone again, I took my glass and said, “I don’t know anything about wine.”

Her eyes twinkled with a teasing light. “I can see that by the way you’re holding your glass.”

I looked at the glass, cupped in my right hand. “What’s wrong with the way I’m holding my glass?” I demanded.

“Do it like this,” she said, gripping the top section of the stem instead of the bowl of the glass. “That way you won’t get dirty finger marks all over it.” Her tone was wry, teasing, but it wasn’t mean.

I did as she said. It felt awkward and pretentious. I grimaced.

“Vaughn, holding your wine glass differently doesn’t make you a bad person.”

My eyes snapped up to hers. “You can tell I’m uncomfortable.”

She arched a brow. “I don’t have to be a psychic to know that.”

“This all seems like a lot of bullshit just to have a drink and a meal.”

She tilted her head, conceding. “It is, mostly. But it’s convention, and you’ll stick out if you don’t follow it.”

“How did you learn all this?”

She smiled, eyes flashing. “We’re not here to talk about me.”

In the intimate, low light of the private room, I very much wanted to talk about her. I wanted to know where she’d gotten that dress, and how she’d learned to move like that. I wanted to know how she’d grown up that she looked completely at ease here, when I felt the itch of every thread against my body.

“Vaughn.”

I looked up. Alba had set her glass down and was leaning forward. Her hand reached across the table, and her fingertips brushed against the top of my palm. I let out a long sigh at the touch, shaking my head. “I wish I didn’t have to do this.”

“Learn table manners?”

“Play this stupid game. My business is solid. It shouldn’t be a stretch for someone else to see it.”