One Good Reason (Boston Love #3)(5)
I, in fact, am not planning to ever work another event for The Catered Affair for the rest of eternity so long as I can help it, but Miriam doesn’t need to know that. Biting back the withering retort poised on my lips, I nod, swipe the tray off the prep table and hoist it into the air with a mocking flourish.
I’m almost to the doors that lead from the kitchen to the function room when they swing inward. Mara, one of the other girls working the event, bustles through in the same ugly uniform I was forced into — black slacks, androgynous button down and a truly terrible mini-vest that makes Hilary Clinton’s famed pantsuits look downright sexy by comparison. There’s an empty tray in her hands and a haggard look on her face.
“Vultures,” she mutters. “Picked my tray clean in under five minutes.” Her clear green eyes focus on my face as she scoots out of my path and holds the door open for me. “Word of advice?”
My eyebrows lift as I step into the hallway.
“Watch out for the guy in the gray pinstripe suit. He’s handsy if you get too close.”
“Fabulous,” I mutter as the door swings closed at my back. Steadying my shoulders, I shake the wig out of my eyes and prepare to face a room full of seventy of Boston’s most affluent businessmen and their arm-candy trophy wives. By the end of the night, one of them is going to wish he’d never crossed my path, considering what I’ve got in store for him. And I’m not just talking about the tofu tartar.
* * *
“Honey glazed edamame?” I offer bleakly, tray extended to the cluster of men by the bar. They don’t even glance at me as they grab the appetizers and pop them in their mouths.
I fight a shudder as I watch the slimy green seeds go down the hatch.
I’m on my fourth and blessedly final circulation of the 40th floor ballroom where Lancaster Consolidated is hosting their annual pre-Christmas party. Once the cocktail hour is over, we get a twenty-minute break while the attendees find their seats in the adjacent parlor, before the dinner service starts. That’s my window: twenty minutes. I hope it’s enough.
It has to be enough.
It’s the only window I’ll ever get.
My eyes slide to the corner of the room where Robert Lancaster, CEO of Lancaster Consolidated and host of this exclusive soiree, is holding court. He’s surrounded on all sides by brown-nosing associates hoping to get in good with Boston’s premiere import-export kingpin.
Middle-aged and somewhat pudgy with thinning brown hair and a truly unfortunate hodgepodge of features, he’s not exactly Johnny Depp. And yet he’s quite popular with the ladies, if his string of high profile ex-wives and ex-mistresses — many of whose “acting” and “singing” careers he’s bankrolled — are anything to go by.
I watch him laugh and snag a canapé off Mara’s tray, shoving it into his mouth with gusto. Those hovering around watch avidly as he chews open-mouthed, waiting in suspense for his next words. To the casual observer, he’s the epitome of a success: a beloved businessman basking in the glory of his financial empire.
I know better.
My eyes cut to the slim silver watch cuffing my wrist. Half past six. Dinner is scheduled to start at seven sharp, a point Miriam has belabored multiple times since I arrived. If my plan’s going to work, I need to empty this tray ASAP and get a move on.
I head for the far side of the room with a smile pasted on my lips, unloading several glazed edamame balls on unsuspecting guests as I go. I’m circling toward the kitchen doors — and freedom — when a beefy hand lands on my ass.
“What do you have there, sweetheart?”
My spine snaps straight and my teeth clench. It takes every ounce of control I possess not to go claws-out alleycat mode as I slowly turn my head to face the man on my left.
Shoddy hair plugs. Dull brown eyes. Gray pinstripe suit.
God dammit, Mara wasn’t joking. I’m tempted to make a scene and spit in his face, but the unwanted attention that will bring won’t do me any favors. All it’ll do is ensure I walk out of here without the intel I need.
He doesn’t move his hand, even when I meet his eyes. Pig.
“Well?” he prompts, a challenge in his tone. His fingers flex ever so slightly and I try not to flinch. “What are they?”
“Honey glazed edamame balls,” I grit out through my teeth. “Would you like one?”
His eyes scan my body and a chill slithers up my spine.
“I’m interested in whatever you’re serving, honey.”
I take a subtle step back as I offer the tray, trying to escape his grip. His hand drops away but he moves with me and, before I know it, I’m backed up against the wall between the bar and the exit doors. I’m just over five feet tall — the fugly black flats on my feet aren’t doing me any favors — so while his girth is nearly wide enough to surpass his diminutive height, I still feel dwarfed by his presence. I hold the tray between us like a shield.
He takes a step closer. “What’s a girl like you doing working at an event like this, sweetheart? You’re much too pretty to be a waitress.”
I swallow and try not to lose my shit. I’ve eaten men like him for breakfast. If I weren’t determined to stay below the radar, he’d currently be on the ground cradling his family jewels.
“Dinner service is scheduled to start in just a few moments, sir.” My voice is colder than ice. “If you’d like a final appetizer before—”