Page 98 of Playing Dirty
The fundraiser's in full swing out here, a few hundred guests clustered under the string lights with glasses of wine, the vineyards rolling away behind them in the low sun. It's a Solstice event, so I'm technically on the clock, which mostly means smiling and making the rounds until enough time has passed that I can slip away to the game without it looking rude.
The reprieve of the kitchen was short-lived, though, because out here I can't get ten feet without someone asking about my hockey boyfriend. How did we meet? Is it serious? How did I get a player like that to settle down? The last one is asked with a little laugh, like I performed a magic trick.
It's all perfectly friendly, and it's all starting to feel less like small talk and more like a press conference I never agreed to.
I scan the terrace, fiddling with the stem of my glass, and spot Dot. She's a familiar anchor in the chaos, stationed at a high-top in the dappled shade of the old oaks, with a vantage point that gives her a perfect view of the entire party. I make my way toward her like she's a life raft.
Today she's got her usual lime-green glasses on, the ones that magnify her eyes to owlish proportions, and a big pair of bright ladybug earrings, which are cheerfully lopsided.
"There you are," she says, patting the stool beside her. "Sit. I'm people-watching, and the main attraction is over there."
I slide onto the stool and follow her gaze to Diane and José, who are down by the flowering wall having what appears to be an actual conversation, no visible bloodshed.
"They've been at it twenty minutes," Dot reports, sipping her wine. "No insults, no storming off. He showed her something on the roses and she touched his arm.His arm, Margot. I've watched that woman insult a man's entire lineage over a pruning schedule, and now she's touching his arm."
I laugh. "I keep hoping they'll just admit how badly they want each other."
"They’d sooner die in a shouting match than surrender that pride," she says, her tone full of affection. "Speaking of, are you getting to your young man's game?"
There it is again, that spike of nerves, and I hate that even Dot asking lands wrong now. It isn't the game itself. It isn't even being public; I always knew that day would come. It's that going public came with opinions and articles and comment sections, and I've spent the week reading all of it when I know better.
Normally I'd take something like this straight to Cillian, but he's got the biggest games of his career starting tonight and needs every ounce of his focus on the ice. So I'm keeping my head down, getting through these next few weeks, and not letting this shit get to me.
"Soon. I have to stay another little while, then it's the driveover." I take a sip. "It's my first game asThe Official Girlfriend. And it's a hugely important one for him, so I’m just hoping it all goes well."
"You'll be marvelous," Dot says. "You're prettier than a peony in full bloom, sharper than a bag of tacks, and a total pro at working a tough crowd. And if anyone does boo you, me and the Fright Club girls will put a hex on the lot of them."
"A hex?" I arch an eyebrow. "Is that a plot point from the latest novel, or just a general service you're providing?"
"A general service, though funny you should ask. Alice announced at our last meeting that she's Wiccan now, and she's been walking us all through it." She sniffs. "I'll admit I love the notion of a well-placed curse. I've a short list, mind you."
"Anyone who kills one of your beloved plants, like a fiddle leaf fig?" I ask, letting out a soft laugh into my wine.
"Oh, they're at the very top of the list." She points a finger at me, her owl eyes widening behind her neon frames. "Which is exactly why I won't let you buy one. You're not fig-ready yet, and I refuse to hex a friend."
"Don't you worry." I tip my glass toward her in a little salute. "I'll prove my worth to the plant queen eventually."
"I've no doubt. But for now, you make a marvelous cactus and succulent mother," she says, winking at me.
I laugh, already preparing a witty defense of my flourishing snake plant, but the sound dies in my throat. My entire body goes rigid, a sudden, icy jolt of recognition slamming into me.
Across the crowded terrace, weaving through the guests in a perfectly tailored suit, is my ex-husband.
Jason.
He's scanning the terrace as he moves, looking a touch hesitant, as if part of him was bracing for the possibility of this encounter. Which he certainly should have been, considering he's well aware I work here.
"Honey?" Dot touches my hand, following my stare. "You've gone the color of a sheet."
"Sorry, it's just." I nod toward the crowd, my voice coming out thinner than I'd like. "That man over there. In the grey. That's my ex-husband. I haven't seen him in a few years."
Dot's owl eyes track across the party and land on him with the focus of a hawk sighting a field mouse. "The wannabe-golfer cheating bastard you told the gals about?"
"That would be the one."
"Say the word," she says, entirely calm, already setting down her wine, "and I'll deck him. I may be in my sixties, but I've a mean right hook and absolutely nothing to lose."
I huff a laugh despite the roar building in my ears, and that's the exact moment his gaze sweeps the terrace and catches on mine. His steps falter, and something awkward flickers across his face, that same jolt of oh-god-there-she-is I can feel written all over my own.
