Page 12 of Keller

I don't answer. Just keep watching as Quinn laughs at something the senator says, playing her part flawlessly.

She doesn't look my way once. But I have to see her again.

THREE

Quinn

The Mistick Krewe of Comus: Founded in 1857, Comus is widely recognized as the first modern New Orleans krewe, establishing the tradition of themed night parades and formal, invitation-only balls. Its structure of secrecy, hierarchy, and exclusive membership became the blueprint for the elite krewes that followed.

My dress fits exactlythe way it did twenty minutes ago. No one looking at me would guess.

The screwdriver in a champagne flute is cold, causing a shiver run through me. The condensation drips down the stem, making my fingers damp.

Nate finds me near the string quartet. He approaches with that easy senatorial smile, the one that makes everyone feel included.

"There you are. I thought you'd vanished."

"Needed some air. It's warm in here."

The lie comes out smoothly, with no hesitation. I don't even have to think about it.

"Fair enough. These things run long." He shifts his weight, glancing around the room. "You meet anyone interesting?"

"Someone at the bar. A friend of a friend, I think. We talked for a minute, then I ended up back over here people-watching."

Nate nods, already moving past it. "Good, good. Listen, I want you to meet the Caldwells. They're considering a major donation to Southern Stars."

He guides me toward an older couple near the far wall. His hand rests lightly at my elbow, steering me through clusters of guests. I let him. It's easier than resisting.

When did lying to Nate become this easy? The thought makes me uncomfortable so I shove it down.

Margaret Caldwell extends her hand first. Her grip is firm, her smile genuine. Her husband, Frank, stands beside her, silver hair slicked back, bow tie slightly crooked.

"Quinn Mercer. It's wonderful to finally meet you." Margaret's voice carries warmth. "Nate speaks so highly of you."

"The feeling's mutual. Thank you for coming tonight."

Nate launches into his pitch. He's smooth, practiced, full of compassion and urgency. He talks about veterans who need housing, families struggling to find resources, and the foundation's fifty-year legacy.

I step in when he pauses. "My grandfather started Southern Stars after he retired from his second career, years after he'd come back from the war. He saw firsthand how hard it was to rebuild a life after service. The foundation has helped over ten thousand families since then, but funding has been tight the last few years."

Funding has been tight is a euphemism for the people running the foundation after my grandfather stepped down, mismanaged funds and essentially bankrupted the foundation.

Margaret nods, listening closely. Frank crosses his arms, assessing me.

"What's the biggest challenge right now?" he asks.

"Overhead. We've cut administrative costs as much as we can without sacrificing quality, but rent and staffing are fixed expenses. We need consistent donors who believe in the mission long-term. Nate has a whole plan to revive this and bring it back bigger than it was before. There is a real need that we can fill."

Nate jumps back in, reinforcing my point. I let him take the lead again, nodding at the right moments, smiling when appropriate.

This is what I do. Stand here, look polished, and play my part. The truth is, I was fine handling things when it was small, but what he has planned, he needs someone to run it full-time with a full staff. That is outside my wheelhouse.

Plus, I can't stop thinking about Keller's hands on my thighs.

The memory hits without warning. His mouth on my throat, my back against the wall. The pressure of his body, the heat, the way I forgot everything except the need to get closer.

I blink and refocus on Margaret. She's saying something about matching funds. I nod.