Faked (Ward Family #2)(13)

"Why wouldn't he partner with a player? There are so many foundations set up for that specific purpose," I said. Off the top of my head, I could count six current players on the Wolves roster who focused on exactly that and did a damn good job. My sisters and I had taken part of so many fundraisers over the years for various foundations, I'd never be able to count them all.

Adele froze, giving me a strange look.

My heart pounded uncomfortably. Lia didn't ask questions like that, apparently.

"Well, that's why you're here, honey," she said. Her voice was sweet and smooth, her face guileless, and her eyes wide. "I'll make my way over there and say hello, and you come bring me my drink. I'll introduce you, and voila!"

Voila, I thought.

Voila, because of who my brother was, this guy was going to hand over a check with a lot of zeros? As a plan, it felt about as stable as a toothpick trying to hold a Volkswagen, but I was keeping my lips firmly shut.

Oh, my sister owed me so, so big for this night. But that, of course, was the irony. Before she asked me, all I could think about was my annoyance that Finn hadn't responded to whatever it was that made me so different from Lia. And that was held up in strange juxtaposition with our interchangeability in all this.

I could've been any of the four Ward sisters, and Adele probably wouldn't have cared. Who I was didn't matter to her in the slightest. The dishonesty in what I was doing faded slightly when I thought about the evening in those terms.

Because even if I'd introduced myself as Claire, told her I'd come in Lia's place, it wouldn't have mattered. Probably to Finn either, sadly.

All I wanted was to have some time with Finn, and now I was basically being pimped out because of my last name. Who I was didn't matter, and sitting at that big table, I suddenly felt very alone.

I took another sip of my wine as Adele turned to speak with her husband. Up on stage, they were explaining ... something. About works of art for sale, displayed around the ballroom. But I couldn't hear a word over the yawning sense of disappointment unfolding behind my chest. I tried to stop it, but it was inevitable. From the moment someone else turned around, to that conversation with Adele, I was just ... disappointed.

Bauer leaned in again, and I gave him a sideways look.

His voice was low, meant to be intimate and secretive. "Now why did that make you look so sad, princess?"

I cleared my face instantly. "I'm not sad," I disagreed. "Just wish it was time for dessert so I could forget this chicken ever existed."

His eyes, a deep greenish gray, searched my face. "Mm-hmm."

What did he see that made him look at me like that? My heart thumped once, twice. Hard.

When Bauer was looking at me like that, I didn't feel alone. I felt exposed.

I found myself pushing my chair back. "I'll be right back."

Adele glanced up at me. "Don't be gone long, honey."

She meant well, and I knew it. This was important to them. Important to Finn.

WWLD.

She'd wink and then promise that it was in the bag. She'd get it done for them simply because they'd asked it of her, this family she was a part of because of her best friend.

And all I wanted to do was leave.

I couldn't dredge up whatever words my sister might have used. "Excuse me," I said softly and walked away from the table, clutching my purse in my hand like it could teleport me away from that place.

Weaving steadily through tables of well-dressed elite who were laughing and drinking, I felt like I couldn't breathe deeply until I was clear of the doors. My hand pressed against my stomach as I felt my diaphragm expand with a slow breath to calm my strange reaction. A few people were milling through the hallways, looking at large black and white photos displayed artfully along the stretched-out hallway outside of the ballroom.

They were a perfect distraction because I didn't really want to dissect why I was so bothered by Adele’s—and Tom's—interactions with Bauer. I'd come for Finn. To spend time with Finn. And instead of being disappointed, my wheels were spinning as thoughts of stepchildren and unwanted children and some strange quarter-life crisis about not being seen as my own unique person tangled through all of that.

My steps slowed as I reached the first photograph, and I froze. It was beautiful and sad. Strangely appropriate for what I'd just been thinking about.

A small boy sat on a broken curb, looking down at a dirty, smudged ball in his hands. It was worn from play, clearly overused. His hair was dark and messy, his lashes long against the pale skin of his cheeks. You couldn't see his eyes, but in the background, two other kids played together. They were out of focus, not meant to be the focus of the shot.

Staring at his shoes, also dirty and worn from use, I found my eyes welling up unexpectedly.

"Goodness, that's depressing, isn't it?" a deep voice came from next to me.

I glanced over my shoulder. A gentleman with a shock of silver and brown hair was staring at the photo, his head tilted to the side as he frowned at the image.

I clasped my hands in front of me. "It's moving, I think."

He hummed, tucking his hands into his pockets.

The disbelieving sound made me smile. "You disagree?"

"I'm shit with figuring out art, young lady."

That made me laugh. "I'm sure you're not that bad."