Page 43 of The Client
I know I look good in the only designer dress I own, yet the moment Rhys and I step into the private ballroom, my confidence evaporates. These people ooze wealth, casually gliding across the floor in their piles of sparkling diamond jewelry and their bespoke suits and extravagant, frothy gowns. I’m way out of my league. Guess I’ll have to treat this like a shoot, where I exude poise and self-assurance that I don’t necessarily always feel. It’s the job, right?
But it doesn’t help that my emotions have been all over the place since finding the tea and tissues outside my door. Things have been awkward between us since. Rhys’s unexpected gesture opened tender feelings inside me that I can’t ignore. And he’s different too—gentler, somehow. More solicitous.
I’m not stupid, I know it doesn’t mean anything. Probably just a passing kindness. Men are terrified of tears; they’ll do anything to avoid more.
Even so, I can’t pretend I’m not growing attached to him. That steaming cup of tea warmed something inside me that has been frozen over for months. Ever since I arrived in America, I’ve had to be completely self-reliant…and while I’m proud of my ability to take care of myself, I had to become a different person in order to survive. Someone tougher, thicker-skinned. Someone who’s always in survival mode.
Back in Poland, my aunt and my sister were always available to me when I needed them, ready to cheer me up or baby me when I was sick or help me if I asked. Here in Chicago, I have nobody. My roommates are nice enough, especially Diya, but I’ve tried to keep my distance from them in order to protect myself. It’s not just about being rivals in the same industry, either. I can’t risk getting attached to people when I don’t know how long I—or they—will be around.
I guess that’s why Rhys’s kindness was so disarming. I’ve put up all these walls, and with one simple cup of tea, he knocked them down.
“Stay close to me,” Rhys says, his tone cool and detached as he takes my hand and places it in the crook of his arm. He must attend things like this so often, they aren’t special. I lift my chin and force a smile onto my face, pretending I’m not overwhelmed.
I amutterlyoverwhelmed.
This party isn’t at all what I was anticipating. I was told we’d be attending a 50thwedding anniversary celebration for one of the board members of Rhys’s grandfather’s company. I expected a dance floor and a cake and a DJ. Not…this.
Yes, I knew it would be fancy, but this is beyond anything I could have imagined. The extravagant ballroom with its glittering chandeliers and gleaming parquet floors, the five-piece orchestra, the professional photographers and the staff in tuxedos who circle with trays of food and champagne. It’s impressive enough for royalty.
The only information I got from Rhys was that the board member and Rhys’s grandfather are close friends, and that anyone important in the company was invited. Including Rhys’s father.
A man approaches us, his hand outstretched as he steps into our bubble.
“So nice to see you, Rhys.” He nods in greeting to me. “And Celine, you’re—oh, my apologies.”
I can feel the way his body goes tense beside me. “This is my girlfriend, Izabela. Izabela, this is Mr. Arlington, another member of the board at McConnell Enterprises.”
The man doesn’t miss a beat as he lightly elbows Rhys in the shoulder. “They say everyone has a doppelgänger, huh?”
Rhys smiles tightly. “There’s only one Celine, trust me.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” I interject, in as friendly a manner as I can.
“Believe me, the pleasure is entirely mine,” he says, grabbing my hand and raising it to his moist lips for a kiss.
It takes some serious effort not to rip my hand away from his mouth, but I manage. Arlington’s eyes rake over me before he’s blessedly called away.
Who is Celine? Of course, asking Rhys is out of the question. She must be of some importance because his entire demeanor has morphed into slowly simmering anger.
He suddenly takes my other hand and presses it over the top of his forearm, so both of my arms are wrapped around his.
“Hang on to me, dammit,” he says under his breath. “Act like you never want to let go.”
Is he serious? Does he really want me clinging to him? Is this a ploy to make this Celine woman jealous? Fine, then. I’ll play the starry-eyed, codependent girlfriend if that’s what his fragile male ego requires.
Tightening my grip, I match his steps as we work our way through the crowd. People offer us greetings and make small talk, and I’m introduced about a dozen more times. Rhys seems disinterested in the socializing, absently giving everyone the same polite, vague responses, never stopping to truly engage with anyone. Fortunately, there isn’t a line at the bar when we get there. Apparently he needs something stronger than the champagne that’s circulating on trays.
He orders a scotch and immediately tosses it back, then gets a refill and turns back to the crowd, sipping more slowly.
“Did you want something?” he asks me distractedly.
“A vodka, please.”
I take the glass from him gratefully, eager for the cold, sharp taste of celebrations withmyfamily to anchor me. The last time I had any was the day I won the contest, when Aunt Sofia pulled a bottle from the freezer and poured drinks for what felt like the entire town.
I open my mouth to share that memory with Rhys and close it again when I see the look on his face.
My hairline tingles. Has he seen Celine? Unsure if I’m allowed to let go of him yet, I’m still clinging to his arm when I spot what he sees, his father coming our way. My hand tightens on Rhys even more, my smile going stiff.
