I’m numb. I’m fuming. I’m…a hot mess. I can’t believe I sparred with the guest of honor not once, not twice, but three frickin’ times in the span of three hours.

My stomach twists. Thankfully I’d been way too worked up to eat much of anything tonight, or it’d be on its way up right about now.

I push through the final throng of guests and find myself back in the Great Hall. Waitstaff are flitting about, clearing glasses and cocktail plates from the tables. A few guests mill around, but most moved to into the European Paintings W—scratch that. I mean “The Stratton Wing” after Archer cut the ribbon and half-smiled for the cameras.

I stagger back to my chair in search of my purse, a cocktail-sized thing that holds little more than a stick of lip gloss and my ID badge. I could do with that tiny bottle of tequila floating around Iggy, but he was with Todd, and I’d lost him when Marisa dragged me over to meet “the man of the hour.”

I cringe. The only thing going for Archer Stratton is that he looks like he stepped out of a Calvin Klein underwear ad; of course, the fact that he knows it weakens the charm. He is probably the most pretentious, rude, self-obsessed man I have ever met, and coming from a fundraiser, that’s saying something. Most billionaires aren’t the self-effacing, down-to-earth type.

Welp, it doesn’t matter now. I’d never see him again. There’s no way I am on this ask anymore, which is fine with me. Valerie and Marisa edged me out nicely back there…almost like they strategized beforehand—

I stop before my thoughts could snowball into some crazy conspiracy theory. Development is a competitive field, your worth contingent on how much money you brought in, but cut-throat? I mean, sure, the perks and raises for exceeding your goals are coveted, but professional courtesy goes a long way in my field. Your reputation could either snag you a job offer or make you unemployable.

It’s my exhaustion speaking. I’ve been on my feet since 7am. I need to be out of this dress, with my feet up and glass of red wine in my hand—pronto.

I pull out my phone and switch it on. I’m about to tap the Uber icon when three texts and two voicemails flash across my screen. All are from Holly, my best friend since third grade.

I gasp. Was that tonight?!

Holly picks up on the first ring. “You have better have a fan-freaking-tastic reason for standing me up. I mean, it better be gold.”

“I’m so, so sorry, you have no idea the day I’ve had—”

“We were supposed to put the finishing touches on my engagement party! I sat in the same booth for two hours before I accepted that you stood me up.”

“I meant to call, but work’s been crazy,” I explain. “Marisa ordered me to attend the wing reveal tonight.”

“So you got to attend a fancy party, and I got to sit at a bar. Alone.”

“I’m so—”

“Do you know what happens to single girls in bars, Quinn?” Holly bursts out. “I haven’t been hit on that much since college! I swear this ring does nothing to deter roaming males.”

“I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I’ve been a mess all day, and I’ll tell you about it later, but that doesn’t excuse my shitty behavior tonight. I am mortified, which is saying something if you knew the conversation I just suffered through.”

Silence. “It was with a guy, wasn’t it?”

I frown. “Um, yes…”

“I knew it!”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Holly. You had a 50/50 chance at getting that right.”

“And he got under your skin…surprising.” Holly pauses. “You normally don’t let people get under your skin.”

“Well, this donor was particularly irksome. And bullheaded. And very rude.”

Holly snorts. “I bet he’s hot.”

“I’m not talking about this.”

“That’s totally a yes.”

“I don’t know how we got on this subject. I’m dead on my feet right now and still need to call an Ub—”

I whirl around as my name is called. Marisa’s crossing the room, bearing down on my position with a determined look.

My stomach lurches. “Holly? Marisa is circling me for the kill. I’m sorry, but I really have to go.”

“Fine, but don’t flake on me again, Quinny. You’re my maid of honor. I’m counting on you to keep me sane over the next few months.”

“I promise!” I whisper into the phone. I hang up as Marisa reaches me. “Marisa, what’s wrong?”

Marisa stops and plants her hands on her hips. “Valerie just told me that you had a very inappropriate conversation with Mr. Stratton before I walked up. She said it made both her and Mr. Stratton uncomfortable, and if she hadn’t interrupted and steered the conversation back to safer waters, you could have jeopardized the ask.”

“Well, I—”

“I don’t need to remind you how important the Strattons are to this museum, do I?” she interrupts.

I gulp. “No.”

“Then what were you thinking?”

“I…” I have no idea what I was thinking.“I was tired. It’s been a long day.”

Marisa stares at me like I have three heads. “You’re a fundraiser. We have long days.”

She dismisses me with her hand. “Well, Mr. Stratton didn’t stick around very long after you slipped away.” She frowns at me. “But I get the sense that he’ll clear the path to his father. This way, we don’t have to rely on Piper to make the introduction.”

Relief washes through me. Thank God I didn’t ruin all of Piper’s hard work.

“And since this is the first major gaffe I’ve seen from you, I’m willing to give you one more chance.”

“One more chance?” I repeat.

“Yes, but I swear if you mess this up again, I’m giving him to Valerie.”

I almost laugh at her choice of words. I’m pretty sure Valerie would be more than happy to have Archer Stratton—in more ways than one.

“I really don’t think I’m up for this, Marisa,” I say carefully. “Thank you for your faith in me, but it was clear tonight that I can’t…”

Stand the sight, sound, or smell of Archer Stratton?

“…conduct myself properly with such an important family,” I go with instead.

Her eyes narrow. “Is that so?”

“Without a doubt. This ask is outside of my expertise.”

“Are you saying you’re unwilling to branch out of annual giving?”

“Not exactly…”

“Because that’s a death wish in development,” Marisa snaps. “I thought I taught you better than that.”

“You did, you have, and I’m grateful. I owe my career to you taking a chance on an intern.” Marisa hired me straight out of NYU, and I did everything and anything (coffee and dry-cleaning runs included) to get where I am today. “But Valerie might be a better fit,” I suggest. “They seemed to hit it off.”

A few agonizing seconds pass.

“Quinn,” Marisa says, over-enunciating each syllable, “when Peter came to me and said you were in the running, I had my reservations.” She smiles at my surprise. “Oh yes, the same ones you have. I’m not stupid, Quinn.”

“Of course not,” I rush to say.

“But I didn’t voice them as you have—twice. Instead, I smiled and thanked Peter for considering someone in my department, and promised I would do my best to make this happen.”

She leans forward, and I lean back. “Do you know what I’m saying here? I’ve stuck my neck out for you. My ass is on the line now, not just yours.” Her hardened eyes convey her meaning better than words ever could.

“I understand,” I mumble.

Marisa straightens and steps back; a spiky black Manolo Blahnik peeks out from under the hem of her gown. “Of course you do, dear,” she says, mildly amused. “Go see Piper tomorrow. She’s been expecting you.”

I turn to go.

“And Quinn?” she calls. I glance back. “Let’s try not to make Peter regret his decision, yes?”

My heart’s pounding in my chest. Blood is rushing to my head. I want to run, but somehow I stay put.

“I won’t let you down,” I say, my voice calm and composed. I’m my best under pressure.