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“She’s on the list,” Declan says, and for the first time, I wonder if he’s been thinking about the fact that I’m going to be here, just like him. Just like me, helplessly consumed by thoughts of what might or could be.
“I’ve checked it twice,” the attendant says, rapping his fist on the clipboard. “No Sophies. No Andersons. And certainly no Sophie Anderson.”
“There’s certainly a Declan Wright,” Declan says.
The VIPs must be on the very first page, with labels and everything, because the attendant straightens in his seat. “Of course, Mr. Wright. Welcome. Right this way.”
“See, Sophie?” Declan says, arching a dark eyebrow at me. “Right this way.”
“But sir, she’s not —”
Declan gives the man a hard stare that instantly shuts him up and makes him squirm. “Don’t you think I know who’s on the list for my own event?”
“Of course, Mr. Wright,” the attendant says quickly, relenting. “Ms. Anderson, please enjoy your night.”
I’m too relieved to be angry or embarrassed. “Thank you.” Twinkling lights line the path to the event space, and I turn to face Declan, my breath catching in my throat. “And thank you. I don’t know what I would’ve done.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “You would’ve gotten in eventually.” It might be the lighting, but his gray eyes have that shot of blue in them again. “You look beautiful.”
I couldn’t have been blushing before, because now I’m absolutely burning up. I try to think of something to say that won’t end up with my foot in my mouth, but the words die on my tongue when he guides me into the opening room by placing the tips of his fingers on the small of my back.
It doesn’t matter that his touch is deliberately light. Every square inch of my skin erupts into goosebumps. I’m so turned on that I might as well be in a bar in San Francisco, a stranger’s hands on my body.
In my body. His fingers. Making me come apart in a room of unwitting witnesses.
I don’t dare tilt my chin to look up at him, because I can feel the cold fire of his eyes burning down at me. I’m afraid of what it might mean if our gazes lock. What we might do.
Then we’re fully inside, and the guests who are here quickly rise to the occasion to have the chance to greet the man of the hour—Declan. I slip away from his touch, fighting to get my breathing under control. It’s an impossible task. It’s been such a long time since I’ve been this close to him—let alone actually touching him—that I’ve forgotten the caliber of our chemistry.
It’s high, and I have to do several laps around the room before I am anywhere near being back in control.
I try not to watch Declan overtly, but it’s fascinating to see how he interacts with people. And how people react to him. He’s turned on his charm and dialed it all the way up. People are drawn to him like a magnet. He doesn’t have a spare moment to himself. As soon as someone stops talking, someone else steps in. If he leaves tonight’s launch with his voice intact, he’ll be lucky.
He’s certainly the man of the hour. As soon as I feel like I’m back to as close to normal as possible, I cope with everything by throwing myself into business mode. This is my night just as much as it’s Declan’s, I decide, and I set to snapping photos of the venue and its guests.
My social media coverage is going much deeper than a bunch of group shots and snappy quips for captions, however. I’m here to help tell the story of Dynasty and how it has impacted stakeholders’ lives. I find myself slipping into the role of reporter as I gather information and hunt down stories.
“I know Dynasty started out as a home fitness system, but we love the product so much that we stocked our gym with several Dynasty systems,” a man with a shiny gold tie tells me. “This is quality equipment.”
I’m sure this is an avenue that we’ve already explored as a marketing team, but I make a note in my phone to follow up with Carol just in case.
“Having a home fitness system can be a little pedestrian,” another woman says haughtily, a little too close to the live band for me to hear without bending my ear directly toward her. “But Dynasty isn’t like plunking down a stationary bike in the middle of your living room. It’s thoughtfully designed. It could be art, really, if you didn’t know what it was for.”
I follow a waiter’s upraised tray of fancy hors d’oeuvres with my camera, already formulating the bright description I’m going to include with the footage, when I have to take a step back to really see this.
Maybe it was the caviar on the tray, but I’m starting to realize that this is an extremely fancy event. Carol warned me this was a black tie affair, but I’m only just now starting to see the disconnect.
If we’re trying to market Dynasty as a brand that’s accessible to everyone, this kind of event is not the way to go.
It’s a little ironic. I know we’re here to celebrate—and that my role tonight is to document that celebration and make it viable marketing material—but we might really need to reassess our approach.
Part of me wants to shoot a quick message to Carol to bounce the notion off her, but I stop. I can handle this. She sent me here to work this event.
If this event isn’t working, I’m going to need to try another approach.
Instead of chatting up the people who seem most in their element with gloved waitstaff and a sparkling venue, I start approaching the people who seem ill at ease. The ones sitting at the sparse tables, hanging back from the general milieu.
The ones actually eating, honestly.
