Chapter Eight
Trent
We should have thrown this ridiculous party at my mansion, so at least I could hide in my office or my room to avoid speaking with all of these people. But Amanda insisted on hosting it in a hotel that’s far too extravagant for a bunch of people who want to fake being Irish while drinking a lot of beer and whiskey. It’s annoying and reminds me of a frat party more than any type of swanky event, because most of the attendees are young executives from tech startups who just want to get drunk. I should have never agreed to this party, but apparently, it’s good publicity and good business.
But at least the décor is amazing. It reminds me of the décor that Katie’s company put together, except this may be even better. Usually Amanda handles all this, but right now, she’s training some new assistant. It suits her well because Amanda loves bossing people around—I’m pretty sure she made the new girl cry a few times already. I need to talk to her about that. We treat our staff well, and clearly, Amanda doesn’t get the picture.
But the décor brings me back to that night over a year ago, and my heart jumps. Thinking about Katie is definitely the wrong move because now I can’t stop. Over the past year, I thought about her less and less—thank god—but fuck, it’s back full force again. I still can’t believe she blew me off after the best sex of my life and couldn’t be bothered to answer any of my phone calls or return the thousands of messages I left. Gathering the last shred of dignity I had, I finally stopped trying to contact her. What’s the point? It would only make me crazier. Get a grip, I tell myself mentally. She doesn’t want you, and that’s that.
But shit, this fucking sucks. I pour a shot of scotch and throw it back. The bartender eyes me suspiciously but doesn’t say anything. He knows it’s my party, and I’ll drink as much damn scotch as I want to. It would be a real show to carry the bottle around with me all night, doing shots straight from the bottle. There will be photographers here though, and the last thing I need is pictures of me drunk off my ass in the tabloids.
God, how the mighty have fallen. Once upon a time, I had droves of women lined up for a date with me, but for the last year, I’ve pretty much become a hermit in my castle. I don’t go out for social gatherings, and if I do, I do it stag. There’s no sense in even getting another woman’s hopes up when it’s Katie, and only Katie, on my mind.
Dammit. I’m still not over her. Grimly, I down one more shot and return the bottle to its place behind the bar. The bartender continues to follow my every move, but then shrugs. What is he going to do? Kick me out? I don’t think so.
Suddenly, Amanda materializes. The woman is wearing a glittery green evening gown, even though most of the other guests will probably be dressed more casually—some even coming as leprechauns or wearing green t-shirts with dumb slogans on them.
“Mr. Moore, guests are beginning to arrive,” she says in a dulcet voice.
I roll my eyes at Amanda’s presence. She’s been extra perky the last year or so, and it’s driving me up the wall. If she wasn’t so good at her job, she’d be fired by now. And as obsessed as she is with me, I wouldn’t put it past her to sue for wrongful termination—which is exactly what firing someone for being annoying as fuck would be considered—so she stays on my payroll.
“Got it. Thanks.”
My stride is much longer than hers as I make my escape from her. I position myself at the mouth of the dining room to greet my guests. I sigh, seeing crowds of familiar faces I don’t care for. Here we go again.
One hour into the party, I really wish we had the shindig at my mansion. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the image of Katie returns. If we had this party at my home and she showed up, we would most certainly relive what happened last year. Over and over again, until the sun came up.
Before my slacks can tighten, I focus on the guests. A few business associates and friends come over to shake my hand.
“Happy St. Patrick’s Day,” Dan Gordon, an executive, says, clapping me on the back. He’s wearing a shamrock tie and his breath indicates he’s been partaking in Irish Car Bombs. I grimace. It’s going to be a long night.
Even as I talk with him, making jovial conversation, my gaze roams idly over the room. And then I spot her. My Katie. What the hell? My body jolts in shock, and I’m floored. I actually rub my eyes to make sure I’m not hallucinating from the alcohol, but there she is. The beautiful brunette’s standing at the doorway between the kitchen and dining room, watching the room like a hawk. She looks slightly fuller than I remember her, her breasts definitely larger, but it may just be the shapely dress she’s wearing. It’s been over a year, so change was bound to happen. I can’t believe what I’m seeing, though. What is she doing here? Was she on the list? Or is she working this event? Did she come to see me? My heart beats rapidly, partly thrilled and partly anxious at the sight of her.
A celebrity grabs my hand violently and shakes it, thanking me for inviting him to the party. I don’t even register what I’m saying back to him; I can’t focus on anything but her. When he’s out of the way, I stare at the vision once more. She hasn’t seen me yet, so I’m free to ogle her. Beyond her appearance, it seems like something else has changed. Like she has a different air about her than she did when we slept together last year. I can’t really pinpoint it, but I shake the thought away. I’m just lusting over the woman, nothing more. It’s been so long since I last saw her, so there’s no point in trying to figure her out like this.
A girl that looks familiar passes by me—it’s Amanda’s assistant. I quickly grab her arm before she slips by into the crowd. She’s startled and immediately turns red and looks down. “Mr. Moore,” she mumbles, fidgeting with the clipboard she’s holding.
“Hi—Laura, is it?” I ask kindly. She nods, going even more red.
“Great job with the caterer choice,” I tell her. “What’s the name of the company?”
Laura’s eyes widen with shock at the compliment. “T-thank you!” She peers down at her clipboard. “It’s called New Wave Events, owned by Katie Martin.” She looks up excitedly. “Amanda let me handle the event planning, she just managed the guest list. I was worried I wouldn’t do a good job, but I’m so glad that you—”
Aha. So Katie is the event planner for this party. “Thanks, Laura,” I interrupt hurriedly, not even looking at her anymore. I walk away, already searching for my girl again.
Suddenly, I see her. She strolling the edges of the party, looking for cups to refill or plates to clear away. And then suddenly, our eyes meet. Hers get slightly wide, and then they close. Her chest heaves with a deep breath, like she’s upset or meditating. Once her eyes open, she scans the room again. I’m dismissed.
What the fuck? Is she actually going to ignore me? I know for sure she recognized me. It’s my fucking party, after all. She obviously knew I’d be here if she chose to work this event. Well, two can play at this game. Instead of walking over to her, I focus all of my attention on being the world’s best host. Guests come over and shake my hand, and I thank them for attending and sharing this holiday with me. St. Patrick’s Day is a somewhat inconsequential holiday, but my friends and business associates will take any excuse to drink and be merry. It’s all on my dime after all.
When the steady flow of guests turns to a trickle, I chance another look at Katie but I can’t spot her anywhere. No matter. I’ll find her later and confront her about never returning any of my calls. And then maybe we can find a nice closet to rekindle our old flame….
Amanda appears at my side. “Mr. Moore, it looks like everyone has been seated. Shall I tell them to start offering the hors d’oeuvres?”
“Sure, Amanda.”
She nods once and heads off for the kitchen. I find my seat at the head table and sit down. Within minutes, there are appetizers being served by waiters with green ties and waitresses in black dresses with green belts. They’re classy leprechauns, unlike some of my business associates, who apparently thought they were dressing for a parade rather than a formal dinner.
The appetizers are delicious, but now knowing that Katie’s in charge of this event, I expect no less from her and her crew. The food served at my masquerade ball was some of the best I’d ever tasted. I suddenly feel an appreciation for Laura, who happened to select not only a great event planning company, but the company of the girl I’ve been thinking about on and off for the past year.
Speaking of Katie, I spot her again, near the bar. My scotch glass is suspiciously empty, so I excuse myself from the table and head for the bar.
Katie sees me and scurries off before I can close the distance between us. Calling out to her would cause a scene that neither of us can afford right now, so I decide against it. Instead, I ask the bartender to fill my glass.
“Another?” he asks.
I smile mirthlessly. “You know it.”
He pulls out the same bottle I’d borrowed earlier and pours me a couple fingers on ice. Instead of downing it in one shot, like I did earlier when there weren’t as many guests around, I settle for sipping the bitter tasting liquid.
Back at my table, the first course has arrived. I pick at my salad, eating the good parts and pretending to enjoy the rest. Salads are expected at things like this, but I don’t like anything about them. If it were up to me, we’d skip the whole multiple course thing and go straight to the main dish. Steak’s my thing, not nibbling on greens like a rabbit.
When I’ve finished my salad, I spot Katie once again. Her back is to me, and she’s having a discussion with a woman about the same age as her. They laugh together, and the woman shows Katie something on her phone.
I decide to take the opportunity to attempt a sneak attack. She can’t run away from me if she doesn’t see me coming. I excuse myself from the table under the guise of finding the restroom and stroll over to where Katie is standing. I’m halfway across the room when she laughs heartily, pats her employee’s arm, and then steps into the kitchen.
I can’t very well follow her into the kitchen. It would be highly inappropriate for me to be in there anyways, especially if we have the confrontation I’m expecting. I sigh. She didn’t even mean to dodge me this time, but she managed to do it anyway.
Figuring my table companions will notice if I come back without ever leaving the dining hall, I follow through on my lie about using the bathroom. Inside, I relieve myself and splash water on my face. Seeing Katie has me all out of sorts. If I want to talk to her, I will find a way to talk to her. She can’t play hide and seek with me forever.
It’ll be hard to confront her with the party in full swing. My best chance of getting her to talk to me is to wait until things wind down before cornering her and getting the answers I deserve. I hate waiting. I’m not a patient man, but I know that the only way I’ll get to talk to her is to wait until we’re almost completely alone. She won’t have a choice, and I won’t risk an embarrassing argument in front of a few hundred of my friends and colleagues.
As I walk back to my table, I feel more confused than I have in a long time. If she were any other woman, I’d have written her off long ago. I would be happy, even, that she left without any huge hoopla about it. But Katie is different, and I don’t know why. Something about her makes me want to keep trying, to never stop. To be near her. To hold her. To love her.
I shake my head as I take my seat, realizing how stupid that sounds. I love the sex. I couldn’t possibly love the woman. Guys like me don’t fall in love, we only fall into lust. Just ask any of the tabloids that regularly feature me as their playboy of the week.
The second course arrives while I’m in the restroom. Before me is a Guinness stew, which I wolf down in record time. Not for the first time, I find that the whole multiple course thing with miniscule portions ridiculous and bougie.
We take a small break between the second course and the main course to allow everyone to digest their food. Since I’m the host, it’s expected that I get up and give a speech. Another worthless and tiresome aspect about these kinds of events.
There’s a podium set up against the farthest wall, complete with a microphone ready for me to address my guests. I slide back from my chair and make my way to the podium. I tap the microphone to make sure it’s on, the noise calling everyone’s attention to me.
“Hello, everyone,” I say, my voice deep and resonating. “Thank you for joining me to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day in style. We don’t get to have fun like this often, so I’m glad you’re all here to share the great food and flowing alcohol that this holiday promises.
“I’d like to thank my assistant, Amanda, as well as her assistant, Laura, for arranging this party and sending out the invitations. I’d also like to thank the planning and catering company responsible for putting on this incredible event and for serving us the amazing food. Did you all try that stew? I could eat nothing but that for the rest of my life and be a very, very happy man.”
The crowd laughs as I expect them to. I know these people. This isn’t my first rodeo, that’s for sure. I hold up my scotch glass to the room.
“Cheers to everyone who could make it, and to everyone who couldn’t. They don’t know what they’re missing!”
Another round of laughter. We sip our drinks.
“Thank you all for coming, and I hope you enjoy the delicious meal that our caterers have planned for us.”
At that, the waiters emerge from the kitchen with their trays and begin to hand out the dinner plates. I settle back into my seat and wait for my food to arrive. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Katie. She’s got her eyes on me, watching carefully.
It’s tempting to storm from my seat and confront her now, but I stay put. After the party, I’ll talk to her. Neither of us is leaving this building until we’ve sorted out what happened last year. And hopefully it’ll end with some closure … which I desperately need after all this time apart.