“I haven’t spoken to her in years,” I continue. “She wasn’t really a part of our life.”
None of our parents were—by their decision, not ours—but I don’t go into those details.
“Who messaged you?”
We arrive at the museum where the charity event is being held, giving me a reprieve from going into any more details about Derek’s family.
“Vivienne.” He holds the door shut when I move to open it and pins me with a hard stare.
If this man can steal the air from a room with a simple look, what could he do to me if he truly wanted to hurt me?
So, no reprieve then.
“I don’t really want to talk about my in-laws, Ivan.” I leave it at that; let him make of it whatever he wants.
He releases his grip on the door and knocks on the window. Immediately, the door swings open, and he climbs out.
A flash of light blinds me as he helps me from the car. Ivan steps in front of me, glaring down a photographer until he backs away. But there are others, and he can’t stop all of them from taking photos of everyone arriving.
Ivan grips my hand and pulls me along.
“If the charity is for the children’s hospital, why are they having it at the art museum?” I ask as we move further into the museum.
“It makes the donors feel more evolved to be surrounded by priceless art. And the higher they hold their nose, the deeper they’ll dig into their pockets to beat out the other assholes in attendance.”
Ivan leads me to our table. Dressed in a floor-length ivory linen, it seats eight with cushioned chairs tied with soft green satin sashes. In the center sits a low arrangement of zinnias. There won’t be any trouble talking across the table, though I have doubts I’ll be able to contribute much to any conversation.
“Aren’t you technically one of the assholes?” I turn my question to the enemy I know. The one I’m confident I can go toe to toe with. At least on most topics.
He casually raises an eyebrow as he turns to me. “I suppose so.”
“Ah, so you agree you’re an asshole?”
His gaze heats, along with the grin tugging at the corner of his lips.
“When the situation calls for it, yes.”
A waitress appears with a tray of champagne, offering the selection to Ivan. Her cheeks flush when she looks at him, but Ivan doesn’t seem to notice. He takes a glass and offers it to me, effectively dismissing her outright.
“I think she likes you.” I gesture toward the waitress who is still glancing in our direction while offering drinks to the other attendees.
“Who?”
“The waitress.” I tap my glass.
“Does it make you jealous?”
“Do you mean do I feel the need to threaten to cut off her hands if she so much as touches you?” I take a sip of the champagne. “No, not really.”
Though I would appreciate it if she’d keep her eyes on her work. For the rest of the guests, of course. It would be horrible if she were to walk into someone and spill champagne all over them because she couldn’t keep her attention where it belonged.
He takes the glass from me, sips it and hands it back.
“Can I ask you something?” I glance at the people mingling around us.
We’re not out of place; we’re dressed exactly as they are. High-priced, designer dresses for the women, and the men in tailored tuxedos. If someone on the outside were to see the lot of us, we’d blend right in, but still, there’s miles between us and them somehow.
“Anything.” He gives a curt nod.
