Chapter Eighteen

Waverly

As I wait to be announced, I slip my foot out of my sparkly Jimmy Choo for a few seconds, rubbing my aching sole as I brace myself against the wall. I literally cannot remember ever wearing heels this high before in my life, and the fucking things are exactly as uncomfortable as they look. One hour in them and my toes throb as my pulse floods my feet with healing blood.

It’ll be worth it to see the expression on Hawk’s face when he sees me, though.

I slept over at his place last night, then left early this morning, telling him I had to buy some stuff for the party. I’ve never been invited to an event as swanky as the Helping Hearts and Hands ball, but I’ve seen enough photos of them to know that there’s nothing in my closet I could wear to something like this. The kinds of people Nixon Caldwell wants us to impress will be dressed like they’re attending the Oscars, and they’ll expect nothing less from us.

So, I did a little shopping on the Promenade at the Venetian.

I found something that looks like it belongs in a retelling of Cinderella – a pearly gray ball gown with a low neckline and a corseted back. The skirt contains layers of satin, tulle, and lace creating a gossamer effect. The seamstress in charge of alterations must have poked and prodded me with about a dozen pins, trying to customize the fit so the waist cinches in at just the right angles. To be fair, it was hard for me to stop fidgeting, no matter how many times she told me to stop. The gown even came with white gloves that go up past my elbows, completing the whole fairytale princess look. While she rang me up and scheduled me to come back for it after the alterations, the girl made a point of telling me they can’t accept altered garments on return or exchange. She probably thinks I’m just some disaffected hipster chick who could never afford a dress like this but wants to “stick it to the man.”

The shoes are gray satin, matching my dress and all the straps are encrusted with hand-sewn Swarovski crystals. The open toes instantly make me feel silly like I’m walking on tiptoes. But each time my toes peek through the layered skirt, my silver gel pedi shines like diamonds. I hobbled around the shoe store like I was on stilts until the salesman showed me how to balance myself on them gracefully, demonstrating the correct stride and posture. I could tell he was amused by the idea that I’d never worn anything like them before.

I spent about three hours in the salon as they carefully curled, pinned, and sculpted my white-blonde hair into an impressive tower of platinum swirls. Then they swabbed my face with foundation, powder-puffed it, and painted my eyes, brows, lashes, and lips with all the meticulous focus and detail of DaVinci working on the Mona Lisa. By the end, I was almost afraid to smile. I felt like if I did, the whole facade they’d spent so much time applying would somehow crack in half like a porcelain mask.

I seriously considered wearing my glasses to the ball. After all, Nixon’s selling us as the geniuses behind the software, right? And people tend to assume that if you wear glasses, it means you’re smarter, no matter how idiotic the presumption. But in the end, I decided my thick lenses and unflattering frames would detract from my overall aesthetic – and I’d worked too hard on this look to let that happen. Instead, I went to an optician, gave him my prescription, and bribed him with a truly staggering amount of money so he’d make the lenses for me same-day. I might not enjoy relying on my status as an ultra-rich person, but by God, it does have its uses from time to time.

After that, I went home and put the contacts in. It took a few tries. I hate eye drops – I always end up blinking at the wrong moment, so they go down my cheeks instead of into my eyes – and I’m not used to placing something directly on my eyeball. But eventually, I got them in successfully. Then I put on the dress, gloves, and shoes, and looked in the mirror.

Not even recognizing the woman staring back at me, I stepped back. She looked like something in a painting, the wife of a rich person who commissioned the artist for a portrait. I had to move a few times along with a few rounds of the parade wave just to make sure it was really my own reflection. As I stared in awe, it took a few minutes to realize that I hadn’t seen myself in a mirror clearly without glasses since I was around twelve.

You looked good, nerd.

Like someone who spends all her time sipping tea with royalty instead of guzzling Mountain Dew in front of a computer screen. The only thing left to do was to memorialize the moment hell froze over with a selfie. I sent it to my mom with a bunch of tongue-sticking-out emojis.

When I arrived at the Armónico, I thought I could just walk in. Instead, one of Nixon’s assistants checked to make sure I was on the guest list, then escorted me to a room to wait until I was officially announced. I guess making a big entrance is part of these things. I had no idea. The kinds of parties I’m used to, you basically just walk in and say, “Hey, guys! Sorry I’m late, but I brought Doritos!” Then you plop down on the nearest couch, crack a beer, and talk about coding for seven hours straight.

So, here I am, nervous as hell.

How the hell am I supposed to make conversation with these people? What if they ask me about something that’s not related to the software, and I sound like a moron?

I slip my foot back into my shoe, even though rubbing it didn’t do much to stop the ache. For the hundredth time, I think about the previous night with Hawk and wonder if I should have told him about Dixie. I had originally planned to as soon as I got there, but when I saw how pale and haunted he looked, I decided to wait until I caught him in a better frame of mind.

Something had clearly spooked him, even if he wasn’t willing to tell me about it. Or maybe he was telling the truth, and all the hard work, junk food, and sleep deprivation had just caught up with him. Either way, he didn’t look like he was in a good state to hear the truth about his birth mother. News like that should be joyful, not one more stressor to throw on the pile when someone’s already at the end of their rope physically and mentally.

So, I kept my mouth shut and decided to wait until after the software launch. Then he’ll be able to relax. Then he’ll be in a position to process the information and decide what to do next.

Plus, I hate to admit it, but there was some vindictive little voice in me that sneered, Oh, you want to keep secrets from me? Fine. I can keep secrets too. And I’ll bet mine are bigger than yours. Like an eight-figure trust fund. Enough to set up a charitable foundation to help nerds like us catch a break.

I know I need to work on not thinking things like that if I’m going to take a crack at being in a successful relationship.

But one thing at a time.

I hear my name announced on the other side of the door: “Ladies and gentlemen, Waverly Emerson, the CEO of Haven Security and co-creator of the SkyEye Protocol!”

Here we go.

Shoes, please don’t fail me now.

The door opens, and I step through, almost tripping on the edge of my gown. Then I see that to make my entrance, I’ll need to walk down the ballroom’s grand staircase.

In heels.

Without falling down.

Dammit.

I carefully descend one step, then the next, desperately hoping I won’t lose my balance and feel my ankle roll out from under me. Then I remember that I have to maintain a smile while I’m doing this, so I tug my facial muscles out of constipation expression and into Cinderella fabulosity. I force my lips into a tight grin and keep taking tiny steps down.

I see Hawk standing at the bottom of the steps in a tuxedo, and holy shit, the bemused look on his face makes the whole thing worthwhile. He actually looks confused, like he’s trying to figure out why they called my name out when it’s clearly someone else coming down the stairs. Then his brain finally accepts that it is me, and his jaw drops.

I manage to reach the bottom without breaking my neck, and I stand in front of him, doing a quick twirl. “Well? What do you think?”

To his credit, he recovers quickly, his stunned expression replaced with his familiar sardonic smirk. “Okay, now you look like shit.”

I burst out laughing. “I appreciate your honesty.”

He smiles, and I can see he’s relieved I got the joke. “Will it mess up your makeup if I kiss you?”

“The stuff they plastered on me today? I think I could probably take a firehose to the face, and it still wouldn’t budge.”

He leans in and kisses me, and I feel a bit dizzy. My dress, his tux, this ballroom, the orchestra, all this opulence...it all seems like some kind of absurd dream, like I woke up and found myself in a classic Disney movie.

“Now that your eyes aren’t behind bulletproof glass, they’re quite lovely,” he says, giving me a salacious wink. “All the better to see me with.”

“Thanks. Now that I’ve got contacts and can see you more clearly...eh, I feel like I could probably do better.”

Now it’s his turn to laugh. “In that outfit? You probably could.”

“I’m guessing Nixon already announced the software? Otherwise, introducing me as its co-creator would be weird.”

Hawk nods. He cut his hair for the occasion. It’s spiked up in a traditional style that suits him. He’s trying to play it cool, but I can see that he’s still staring at my transformation, trying to process it. Good. I’m glad I can surprise him like this. Of course, this is nothing compared to the surprise he’ll get when he finds out about Dixie, but...

A tall, impeccably-dressed man with jet-black hair steps between us, smiling at me. He has a pencil-thin mustache and wears diamond cufflinks with a matching tie pin. Overall, he looks like a younger version of Timothy Dalton, complete with straight white teeth, dimples, and a strong chin with a manly cleft in the center.

“Waverly Emerson, isn’t it?” He speaks in an upper-class British accent, making the Dalton resemblance complete. “Please allow me to introduce myself. Nigel Beauclerk. I own several casinos in Monaco. Nixon has been telling us all about your recent brainchild, and I have a few questions about it. Join me for a dance?”

“I’d be happy to answer any questions about SkyEye for you,” Hawk says, eyeing the guy like he wants to slap him.

“Oh, no need to trouble yourself, dear boy,” Nigel assures him, barely looking in his direction. “I’m sure Miss Emerson will do nicely. Besides, I gave up dancing with other fellows shortly after public school.” He extends a hand. “Shall we?”

Before I know what I’m doing, I find myself taking his hand and letting him lead me to the dance floor just as the orchestra swings into “Begin the Beguine.” I spare a glance back at Hawk and catch his manly glower. It’s sweet that he’s jealous, and part of me knows I should politely thank Nigel, detach myself, and return to Hawk. But Nixon did invite us here to mingle and answer questions, after all.

Something about the warmth in his words sends a thrill of pleasure straight through me. I’m embarrassed to admit it to myself, but there’s another part of me that wants to dance with Nigel. I’ve never looked like this before, never been the belle of the ball even back in high school, and the attention that goes with it goes straight to my head, like trying a new drug for the first time.

Any other day, any other place, a guy like Nigel wouldn’t even notice me. Now he’s going out of his way to sweep me off my feet, and he’s not the only one. As he places his hand on my hip and we start to dance, I see the faces of other men, handsome and wealthy and powerful, all watching us and wondering if they’ll get a chance to steal me away for the rest of the evening. I don’t want to disrespect Hawk, or even have him consider that I don’t want him, I just want to indulge in a little fantasy for a few stolen hours until the clock strikes midnight and I turn back into a geeky coder.

“So, what did you want to ask me?”

“I’m afraid that was a bit of subterfuge on my part so that you’d dance with me.” Nigel flashes his winning smile. “But now that you mention it, there’s something I’d very much like to know.”

“What’s that?”

“Whether you’d be willing to join me for a week in Monte Carlo, where I will treat you to the finest restaurants, the best hotels, and the smallest bikinis. My private plane stands at the ready over at McCarron. We could leave tonight. Within the hour, in fact.”

I chuckle as a wave of warm emotion flows over me. I’ve never been the center of attention. “Wow. Subtle, aren’t you?”

“Well, I didn’t become the fifth wealthiest man in Europe by being subtle.”

“That’s quite the humble brag. But aren’t there plenty of pretty girls in bikinis there already? It’d be like bringing sand to a beach.”

“But what beautiful sand,” he insists. “I’ve been to every beach on the Mediterranean, and I can assure you, there are no women there whose unique beauty surpasses your own.”

I flutter my eyelashes and give him a playful swat on his tuxedo-clad forearm. “I’ll bet you say that to all the girls. And I’ll bet it works. And it’d probably even work on me, except that, well...I’m taken.”

“Not by the fellow you were standing with, surely?” Nigel looks over at Hawk with utter disdain, dismissing him. My heart aches. That’s my man, and he’s been forsaken a lot in his life, and none of it has been deserved. “A thoroughly unimpressive specimen, in my estimation. Whatever he can give you, I’m quite certain I can as well. Especially, what you can’t see on the outside.”

Nigel’s snooty attitude – and utter dismissal of Hawk – starts to piss me off, so I decide to mess with him a little. I raise my eyebrows in disbelief, lean in close, and furtively whisper, “You mean you’ve got a fourteen-inch cock too? Wow, I thought I’d probably only see one in my lifetime.”

His expression is priceless. His face falls, and his eyes widen. Slowly, he removes his hand from my waist, steps back, and clears his throat. “Madame. I apologize for interrupting you. Have a lovely evening.”

He strolls off, and I try to hold my laughter in. Okay, my inner imp is coming out to play, and Nixon probably won’t like that I ruffled the feathers of one of his rich friends. But still, he can kiss the thong-clad ass that went sans boy shorts for one night only. What, he thinks just because he owns a bunch of casinos, he can straight-up offer to buy me for a week like a high-class hooker? Stuck-up asshole.

I stalk back to where I last spotted Hawk about to confess my sins, but I can’t find him. I text him to ask where he went, but he doesn’t answer.

Damn. Did he seriously think I’d just abandon him for some random British weirdo? I was just trying to have a little fun.

I know I should run after him, maybe even go back to his house and apologize, but I’m having too much fun being here. Getting this dolled up took hours, so I’m not going to leave within the first fifteen minutes. Besides, he’s close to Nixon, so he’s probably been to his share of these kinds of events. He knows that one of us needs to be here to field questions and pimp out SkyEye.

I can always clear things up with him later.