Chapter 5

Dumbstruck, I stared down at destruction. What on Earth had happened?

Where the serving station used to be, all that remained now was a giant mess. Oh sure, the table was still there, but it was now lying on its side, surrounded by broken dishes, scattered food, and toppled serving trays.

Even the chafing dishes were upended, along with all of the edibles that we'd been so determined to keep warm. As far as the lit candles, they were nowhere in sight, but I did spot a few burn marks on the formerly pristine tablecloth, which happened to be covered in stains and wadded up into a loose blob.

In the middle of everything was Naomi, who was crouched on the floor, plucking crab cakes off the ornate rug.

I stared down at her. "What happened?"

Only barely glancing up, she tossed a crab cake into a nearby wastebasket and said, "Don't ask."

I looked around. Except for the catering mess, the party hadn't really changed. In the far corner, the jazz band was still playing. Around us, the guests were still laughing and drinking. On the room's opposite side, Ms. Hedgwick was back at her old spot, giving me another dose of the stink-eye.

Well, that was nice.

Returning my attention to the mess, I crouched down beside Naomi and followed her lead, plucking food off the rug and tossing it into the trash. Trying to lighten the mood, I said, "I guess we should look on the bright side, huh?"

She stopped in mid-motion to ask, "What bright side?"

"Well, we don't need those extra candles anymore." I gave her an encouraging smile. "So, that's good, right?"

Naomi only frowned. Under her breath, she muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Fuck the candles."

Like so many other things tonight, it was déjà vu all over again. It seemed like the perfect time to repeat my question. "So what happened?"

Naomi sighed. "There was this guy, drunk off his ass, and—"

"And he flipped the table?"

She gave me an annoyed look. "No. He went careening into the table when our 'gracious host' body slammed him."

My jaw dropped. "You don't mean Zane Bennington?"

"Who else would I mean? It's his place, right?"

I glanced around. Yeah, it was his place, and it was absolutely fabulous.

He so didn't deserve it, especially considering how callously he was willing to toss others out of their home. I felt my jaw clench. That guy? What he deserved was a giant kick in the ass.

Hoping for the best, I asked, "So did the guy body-slam him back?"

Naomi tossed another crab cake into the trash. "No."

My shoulders sagged in disappointment. "Well, did he at least hit him or something?"

"You mean did the drunk guy hit Zane Bennington?" Naomi paused. "He threatened to hit him. Does that count?"

Damn it. I muttered, "Not really."

I considered the timetable. Odds were pretty good that the drunk was Teddy, the guy who'd been arguing with Zane outside the van. What he actually looked like, I had no idea, but I'd definitely recognize his voice – well, if he slurred, that is.

How he sounded sober, I could only guess.

Mulling all of this over, I continued plucking food off the rug while Naomi went in search of cleaning supplies.

As I worked, I eyed the rug with growing concern. It was creamy white with black and tan swirly patterns. And yet, as ornate as the patterns were, they did nothing to hide all of the food stains.

Probably, I should've been happy. Like everything else, the rug looked beyond expensive. If the stains didn't come out, Zane would surely need to replace it, and it wouldn't be cheap.

Good.

My joy lasted like five whole seconds before I gave a silent scoff. A new rug? The expense would be pocket change for a guy like Zane Bennington.

Probably, he'd simply send out a servant to buy a new one. Or more likely, a servant would send a servant, because let's face it, Mister Fancy-Pants probably had a million better things to do – like kick puppies or burn down orphanages.

Jerk.

I was still plucking food off the carpet when the sound of throat-clearing made me look up. Standing over me was the senator's fiancée, dressed to kill in a sleek black dress and big diamond earrings that looked like the real deal.

She looked down to ask, "Do you have any more crab cakes?"

I hesitated. Was that a serious question? I mean, she did see the mess, right? I said, "Excuse me?"

She sighed. "I said, do you have any more crab cakes?"

I glanced around. Yeah, I had dozens, assuming she didn't mind scraping them off the rug. But telling her that would be a mistake, so I gave her an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, but they're not really edible."

And did she smile back?

No.

She didn't.

Instead, she made a little huffing noise and said, "But they're the senator's favorite."

Oh, please. If the rumors were true, the senator's real favorite was something called a cheerleader sandwich.

Still, I forced another smile. "Gosh Tiffany, I'm really sorry, but—"

She stiffened. "What did you call me?"

"Uh, Tiffany?"

She was frowning now. "That's a little personal, don't you think?"

I stared up at her. Surely, she remembered me. In college, we'd had at least ten classes together, maybe more. After all, we'd majored in the same thing. Hoping to jog her memory, I said, "Well, I remembered your name from –"

"From the papers, I know." She gave a toss of her ice-blonde hair. "But that hardly makes us friends."

Now, I was the one frowning. "What?"

"I'm only saying, just because you've seen my name in the society pages, that doesn't put us on a first-name basis."

I felt my eyebrows furrow. Society pages? Was that even a thing anymore?

I tried to think. The last time I'd handled an actual newspaper was when I'd been unpacking some rummage sale coffee cups. And even that newspaper had been old and yellow, with more coupons than actual news.

I was still kneeling at Tiffany's feet. Suddenly, I didn't like it. I stood and brushed the crumbs off my apron. She was taller than I was, and I still had to look up to meet her gaze. But then again, she was wearing heels higher than the Empire State Building.

I crossed my arms. "What should I call you?"

She shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe 'Miss'?"

I almost laughed. "Seriously?"

"Or, if you want to make it more personal, you could always go with Miss Bedford." She lifted a hand and wiggled her fingers, making her massive diamond engagement ring sparkle in the light of the chandeliers. "Until I’m married, that is." She gave me a thin smile. "And then, you can call me Mrs. Senator."

Okay, that had to be a joke. Ever the optimist, I forced a laugh. "Good one."

She blinked. "A good what?"

I studied her face. So that wasn't a joke?

Could she seriously not remember me? I tried to think. I'd run into her just last month at a nearby book store. She'd recognized me just fine then.

And then it hit me.

At the book store, I'd been just another customer – an old college classmate. Now, I was the poor slob plucking seafood off the floor. Apparently, that put me so far below the future Mrs. Senator that we weren't even on speaking terms, even as acquaintances.

How lovely for her.

Probably, I should've let it go, but for some reason, I just couldn’t. "Oh come on," I persisted. "I sat next to you in graphic design."

Her mouth tightened. "So about those crab cakes? That's a 'no', then?"

Oh, so that's how it was.

I pointed to the floor. "There's a couple. Want me to toss them onto a plate for you?"

She didn't even look. "They're not for me. They're for the senator."

Oh, for crying out loud. First of all, he was a state senator. And second of all, assuming Tiffany even made it to the altar, she'd be wife number four. "Fine," I said. "Want me to toss them onto a plate for him?"

She glanced at the floor, and her brow wrinkled. "Are they still warm?"

Oh. My. God. She wasn't seriously considering it? I said, "Well, they do have a nice coat of lint."

She frowned. "Can't you scrape it off or something?"

I gave her a disgusted look. "Are you serious?"

She lowered her voice. "I mean, like so he wouldn't know?"

"Oh, he'd know," I said. "And if he didn't, I'd tell him."

Her gaze narrowed. "You wouldn't."

"I would."

"Well, this is just great." She made a sound of frustration. "I can't go back without them. He gets all super-intense when he's hungry." She gave another huff. "And he's in the worst mood already."

No doubt, he was. After all, his fiancée had just been caught dry-humping the host. That would be enough to put anyone in a bad mood.

Still, why was she confiding in me of all people? After all, it's not like we were on a first-name basis or anything – as I'd been so recently informed.

Summoning up my last ounce of professionalism, I pointed to my left. "You do know they've got shrimp cocktail in the solarium."

She perked up. "Really? Why didn't you say so?"

"I just did."

"Oh, fine," she muttered. "Whatever." And with that, she turned and flounced away, heading toward the solarium. As for me, I returned to the floor and tried to count my blessings.

Oh sure, I might be plucking food off the carpet, and sure, I might've just been shunned by a former classmate, and yeah, I'd been caught eavesdropping by our not-so gracious host.

But it could always be worse, right?

Probably, that was the wrong question, because – almost as if I'd willed it personally – things did get worse, thanks to who?

Zane Bennington – the biggest prick in the universe.