Page 167 of The Storm

“Really?” he asks. “So you had lunch penciled in somewhere on that schedule of yours?”

I shove the iPad into my armpit, peel the paper off the sandwich, and take a huge bite. “I’m sure I would’ve found something.”

“Yeah, well. This way you won’t faint tonight from lack of food.”

“Well, thanks,” I say, mouth still full. “It’s really good.”

His lips twitch as he watches me scarf down the food.

“What?” I ask.

He shakes his head, reaches out, and swipes something off the corner of my mouth with his thumb.

“So hot,” he deadpans, just before he licks his thumb clean. I nearly stop breathing. I try not to react, but my treacherous heart doesn’t get the message. I swallow hard and shove the food into my mouth a little slower.

“I’m a mess, I know. But I don’t want to fuck anything up too much, and I’m so far out of my wheelhouse with this one,” I say.

“You should wear those jeans to the party later,” he says, seemingly out of nowhere.

I look down at my threadbare T-shirt and ratty jeans with rips in them before I meet his gaze again. “It’s black tie?”

“Sure. But there’ll be a lot of frustrated housewives and rich widows here. In those jeans you should get plenty of donations out of them. Maybe consider going shirtless.”

I roll my eyes and try to maneuver the iPad back into my hand while simultaneously looking for a trashcan for the sandwich wrapper.

“Finding a sugar daddy has always been plan B,” I say.

“Here.” Nick steps closer and rescues the iPad, taking the wrapper too.

“Thanks,” I say distractedly, too preoccupied by how close he is to me.

My phone starts to ring again. I pull it out and glance at the screen.

“I gotta run,” I say, already on the move.

When I glance over my shoulder before rounding the corner, he’s still looking at me.

The restof the day passes in a haze of preparations and me silently praying it won’t end up being a total disaster. The biggest event I’ve ever been responsible for was a bake sale in middle school, and to say that was a raging success would be a blatant lie.

At half past seven I finally manage to sneak off and take a quick shower. The venue space is about thirty miles from Boston, and they have a few rooms available upstairs for the guests. I sneak into the first empty one and take the world’s quickest shower before I get dressed in the tuxedo I rented a few days ago.

I hurry back downstairs, stop in the doorway, and take a look around. I’m not an expert, but I think it ended up looking pretty nice and sufficiently over the top.

The ceiling is covered in fairy lights that bathe everything in a golden glow. There are plenty of candles on the high round tables where people can stand and stuff themselves with fancy food served in tiny portions. There’s a chocolate fountain and ice sculptures shaped like flamingos and swans.

Servers move through the crowd carrying trays of cocktails in all different colors—pink with sugar around the rim, something bright blue smoking with dry ice. Champagne towers glitter under the lights.

It’s a lot, and it’s ridiculous, but it’s also really difficult not to be excited by all of this. At least a little bit. Plus,Ipulled it all together.

I whirl around when somebody clears their throat behind me.

There’s a guy standing right behind me. A faintly familiar man with strawberry blond hair and freckles.

“Hi.” He smiles.

“Hi?” I reply.

His eyes sweep over the room. “This is quite an event.”