Settling the Score (The Summer Games #1)(62)

“This is a mistake,” I whispered back.

But it wasn’t a mistake. The photographers wouldn’t leave us alone, and I couldn’t settle back into Resting Bitch Face until I was well within the confines of the banquet hall.

I stretched out my jaw. “Jeez, pretending to be happy is hard work.”

Kinsley laughed. “Now you know why I wear shades all the time. It makes it much easier to pretend they aren’t there when they snap photos.”

I pocketed that bit of knowledge for later and then followed Kinsley through the party. Soft music played in the background and servers were walking around in black suits, serving hors d'oeuvres on silver trays. I reached for something that looked like a shrimp and then froze as half a dozen camera flashes went off in my direction.

“Don’t put anything in your mouth that you can’t eat in one bite,” Kinsley warned, tilting her head toward the cameras. Jesus, I couldn’t even enjoy the food?

The banquet hall was jam-packed with members of the press, all wearing official Olympic-sanctioned badges. Even if they hadn’t been wearing lanyards, they still stuck out like sore, pudgy thumbs compared to the athletes in attendance. We wove through the crowd and I kept an eye out for Freddie. She’d said he’d be there, but by the time we made it to our table, I hadn’t found him yet.

“Looks like we’ll have to endure the press through dinner,” Kinsley groaned, reaching forward for her name card on the table. I was assigned to the seat next to her, but I couldn’t see the other name cards from where I stood. For all I knew I’d be sitting next to a Bulgarian shot putter. Joy.

“I’ll go get us some drinks. Will you be okay here?” Kinsley asked.

I made a show of rolling my eyes. “Honestly, I’m fine. What do you think? I’m going to run over and hump Freddie the first chance I get?”

She smiled. “Either that or slap him.”

As she left for the bar, I turned back to the crowd and recommenced my search for Freddie. It shouldn’t have been hard filtering through the balding reporters, but it wasn’t until there was a commotion near the door that I realized why I hadn’t found him yet.

He’d only just arrived.

He and Thom breezed into the banquet hall and every camera within a ten-mile radius turned and flashed in their direction. He stood for a moment in the doorway. His suit was tailored to his long swimmer’s physique and his smile was just wide enough to make my toes curl. He wore his suit with ease and confidence and even from across the room, I wanted to hump him. Sorry, Kinsley. I lied.

He smiled good-naturedly for the cameras for another few seconds and then waved them off so he could step into the party. I stood frozen to my spot, watching him walk and recklessly hoping he’d eventually find his way to me.

“Andie Foster! We meet again!”

My name, spoken in a shrill English accent, forced my attention away from Freddie. Sophie Boyle, the sour-faced reporter who’d tried to interview me in the food court, was back, and she was standing behind a chair across the table from me. As if on cue, she reached for her name card and turned it around. Sophie Boyle was written in scrolling gold cursive.

“Looks like we’ll be tablemates,” she said with a twisted smirk.

I shook my head. We were the only two people at the table and I’d be damned if I stuck around to deal with her harassment. I turned, prepared to find the nearest bar, and stopped short right before I ran into Freddie’s wide, powerful chest.

He reached out to steady me, but I stepped out of his grasp quickly, too aware of Sophie Boyle right behind us. She already suspected something was going on; we didn’t need to add fuel to the fire.

“Andie,” he said, breathing life back into my name.

“Excuse me—”

Sophie Boyle cleared her throat behind me. “No need to be shy you two. Freddie, your name card is on this table as well. It looks like we’ll all be well-acquainted by the time they’ve served dessert.”

I shook my head. “I need a drink.”

Freddie followed after me and I didn’t stop him. The bar in the far corner of the banquet hall was dark, quiet, and most importantly, free of reporters. They were all hovering around the entrance of the room, ready to pounce on the next athlete that walked through the doors.

“I came to see you the other day,” he said.

I winced at the sadness in his voice. “It was a really bad day, Freddie—”

“I know. How is your wrist?”

“Not better yet.”

He nodded. “I’m so sorry, Andie.”

I brushed away his apology. We both knew I didn’t want to discuss my wrist.

“You have to know that I’m ending this betrothal,” he said. “I wasn’t lying.”

“I know,” I said just as we reached the bar. “I spoke with Georgie.”

I put in an order for a ginger ale—though I would have loved a shot of tequila—and Freddie requested a water.

“So you forgive me?” he whispered.

I tried to conceal my slow-spreading smile.

When the bartender turned his back, Freddie slid his hand around my waist and pulled me flush against him. He was impossible to resist—his chest, his thighs, his stomach. He was hard edges and toned lines, but his touch was soft and warm.