Page 20 of Masked Secrets
Brooke is on her feet, clapping along with everyone. I instantly smile at her reaction. The sincerity of her enthusiasm for something so important to my dad and our family warms my heart.
As Aunt Jen leaves the stage, I step back to the podium, signaling for the audience to sit. “Thanks to each of you. Please enjoy your lunch. The auction will begin during the dessert course. We’re counting on the generosity of each of you to solve this problem.”
Returning to my seat, I find Brooke talking with Aunt Jen. Brooke’s expression is one of concern and compassion. I’m touched by her empathy for someone she’s only just met.
Reaching under the table, I give Brooke’s leg a quick squeeze. She whips her head around in shock. I whisper in her ear, “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. Ms. Davidson’s story is quite upsetting.”
Brooke’s face relaxes. “Oh. Thanks. It is. I can’t imagine losing someone so senselessly. They were just children playing in a river.”
“It’s tragic. There are thousands and thousands of similar stories—not to mention the people who slowly suffer from unexplained symptoms caused by chemical contamination.”
“I’m sure the auction will raise a ton of money. I recognize several celebrities in the audience. They can afford large donations.”
“True. And the people you don’t recognize can likely afford to donate even more. We have several high-tech giants and financial icons seated amongst us. We just need them to open their wallets and pull out those black credit cards.”
“Fingers crossed. By the way, you mentioned having questions for me. What did you want to ask?”
Fortunately, we’re interrupted by waiters bustling about and placing dishes laden with salmon, asparagus, and rice in frontof us. While the food looks inviting, it’s banquet food, so my expectations are muted. Regardless, the refill of wine will make it more palatable.
Wisely, the PR team instructed the hotel that glasses should remain full. Happy, slightly giddy guests are more likely to raise their auction paddles with abandon. All’s fair in love and charity, as my dad would say.
As we’re eating, Aunt Jen leans closer to Brooke, saying “You and Stuart make such a cute couple. How long have you been together?”
Brooke draws in a quick, panicky breath. She eventually manages to say, “Oh. We’re not together. I’m just the lawyer for the Foundation. We only work together. It wouldn’t be appropriate. We’re not allowed to date clients.”
Brooke’s gaze turns to mine, silently begging me to help her.
Before I can intervene, I overhear Aunt Jen say, “Pffft. A viscount and a lovely lawyer seem like a perfectly appropriate pairing to me. Much better than that robotic Lady Whitfield that his parents keep trying to force on him. Besides, the way you two look at each other tells the real story. If you’re not together yet, you should be. Take it from an older woman—don’t let a few silly rules leave you with regrets for what could have been. I made that mistake once. Never again.”
I’m not interested in a relationship, but I agree wholeheartedly with Aunt Jen’s other point. Regretting missed opportunities isn’t worth it.
Instead of pressing the point with Brooke, I offer my support. Leaning toward her, I whisper, “Don’t stress. Aunt Jen likes you, which is no surprise. She’s just playing matchmaker. Don’t stress. No one else thinks we’re dating. You’re doing your job well.”
“She’s your aunt?”
“By choice, not by blood. We’ve always been close. She wants me to be happy and thinks she’s helping.”
“Now, I understand. She’s a lovely lady.”
“That, she is,” I smile, lifting my wine glass with one hand while reaching to squeeze Brooke’s hand with my other. I absorb the now familiar zap of electricity from our touch. It’s energizing rather than painful. The only hard part is not knowing if we’ll ever share more.
Brooke’s forehead is scrunched in worry as she slowly removes her hand from mine. Does she hate the idea of a missed chance too, or is she more concerned that our attraction is apparent to others in the room? After all, an entire table across the ballroom is filled with colleagues from her firm.
I’m ready to ask her about this when the servers arrive with the pudding or, as Americans would say, the dessert.
Brooke says, “This red and white creation looks delicious. Do you know what it is?”
“It’s called Eton mess. My dad would be in heaven if he were here. It’s his favorite.”
She dips her spoon into the concoction, asking, “What’s in it other than cream and strawberries.”
“Broken pieces of meringue. Try it. It’s delicious.”
Taking a bite, she closes her eyes, moaning softly.
That lovely sound coming from her has me shifting uncomfortably in my seat as my thoughts threaten to stray to less appropriate territory.
“Yum. This is so good. Why do they call it Eton mess? It’s not messy. It’s fantastic.”
