Best Laid Plans - Robyn Kelly (red white and royal blue hardcover .txt) 📗

Luke’s tray and I watch her lips move. I don’t know what she says but Luke steps back and then hurries off.

Robert and I look at each other, and then he motions to Luke. When Luke reaches us, I notice how pale he is under the spray-on tan.

“What happened over there?”

He glances cautiously toward Ms. It to make sure she isn’t watching. “I gave her my standard line. ‘I’d like to bite that lip of yours.’ Then she looked at me and said, ‘And I’d like to bite that dick of yours. Hard!’ And snapped her teeth together!”

I put my hand on his arm, and instantly regret it. Luke likes to oil his body and now my hand is slick. “When you finish handing out those glasses, why don’t you take a break. And you can avoid her for the rest of the night.”

He flashes me his $28,000 smile (he didn’t cap his four wisdom teeth), and thanks me before heading back into the crowd. Robert hands me a napkin off Luke’s serving tray as it passes. It’s a simple gesture, and reminds me how grateful I am to have him for a friend. “I’m going to miss this. You always seem to know what I need. I wish…”

Robert grabs my clean hand. “Don’t cry. I only took one napkin.” He smiles warmly at me. “This has been a great ride. The last few years…it was a dream job. Thank you for giving me that.” I notice Robert’s eyes are getting a little misty, too. “Let me go check on the cake.” He heads to the kitchen, even though we both know there’s an hour before the cake is served.

I follow Robert’s lead and take a lap around the room, checking that the bar stations are well stocked. It’s busywork, but it’s better than wallowing in self-pity.

When I finish the circuit, Ms. It is still glued to her phone, while knocking back a glass of champagne. There are three empty ones next to her, lined up like dominoes. News travels fast and my guys must be too scared to come near her. I grab a cocktail tray and head over.

She’s talking on her phone by the time I arrive, too absorbed in her conversation to notice me pick up her empties. I am not an eavesdropper, but it is my duty to evaluate her state of inebriation for insurance exposure purposes. At least, that’s the excuse I give myself.

“That’s so unfair. You don’t care about me. Now what am I supposed to do?” she whines into the phone.

My guess is that Ms. It has a drinking problem because I’ve heard all those phrases from the drunks in my life. I don’t need to hear any more. I’ll let the staff know she is cut off. And to expect her to make a scene about it.

I circle through the party, telling my servers and bartenders. She’s easy to describe and most of my team know exactly who I’m talking about.

Heading to the bar near the entrance, I see Kyle stacking champagne flutes into a tower. I know it’s Kyle because the tattoo on his back has his name spelled out in big letters. I once asked him why and he said, “So women will know me coming and going.”

I never feel comfortable with stacking glassware, especially in a city with a history of earthquakes. I am about to say something when I spot Ms. It sitting on a stool. She doesn’t have her nose buried in her phone now. She is staring into the eyes of a man. Well, trying to stare. She’s so drunk her eyes keep crossing. All I can see is the back of his head as he hands her a drink—which is totally irresponsible. She says, “Thank you, sir,” and he responds, “Call me Jackson.”

I am not a snoop (I keep telling myself) but the low rumble of his voice—with just those three little words—piques my interest. Her hair starts to sway and I know she’s wobbly. The man who says his name is Jackson (can you trust a man who gives a drunk woman more alcohol?) puts his hands out to steady her. The most beautiful hands I’ve ever seen. I don’t notice men’s hands normally, unless they’re really dirty or touching me inappropriately, but his hands are sexy. They’re large, and masculine, and…I don’t know how to describe the appeal of them, but if you think the word manhandled is bad, you haven’t seen this man’s hands.

I want to see his face. I’m not a…oh, who am I kidding? I have been snooping and spying and stalking Ms. It since I saw her, and now I’ve moved on to the man sitting next to her. Maybe it is a full moon tonight, or maybe I just want to see the face that’s attached to the first hands I ever found sexy, or maybe I want to know who would hit on a drunk girl when a perfectly wonderful, responsible, single, clear-headed woman is standing right behind him. For some reason, that thought makes me angry enough to act on this crazy impulse.

I slide behind the bar, keeping my back to the two of them. Several boxes of champagne are on the floor, and I bend over to pick up a bottle. My plan is to turn around, set the bottle on the bar, and open it while discreetly giving the man the once-over. I know from experience that a hot voice doesn’t necessarily go with an attractive face, but I have no experience with sexy hands.

The first problem is that this box of champagne is glued shut, and I need to rip it open without breaking a nail. It takes several tries until I finally get enough of the lid pried back to pull out a bottle. Now, for the big reveal. I turn, keeping my eyes down, and peel the foil covering the cork. This is actually fun. Maybe I’ll become a private investigator. Robert keeps telling me I have world-class snooping skills.

“Oh, champagne! Let’s have a toast, sir,” Ms. It drawls. She must be too drunk to remember his name.

“Jackson. Call me Jackson. Finish the one you have, first.” His tone is so authoritative. He probably has to speak that way to get it into her alcohol-soaked brain. Now is the perfect moment to peek, while he’s talking to her.

I lift my eyes, targeting the prey in my sights.

If I had to pick a face in a police lineup that went with those hands, it would be his. I’m around attractive men all the time. Every event I do has shirtless waitstaff, so I’ve become immune to male beauty. Don’t get me wrong: I can still appreciate a finely chiseled chin and buff body, but experience has taught me that if any of those men had a choice between staring in my eyes and staring in a mirror, I would be a distant second.

Yet next to him, those men are pretty. He is hot. And it’s not just physical. There’s a sexual energy that radiates off him like Sterno under a chafing dish. I could stare at this man’s profile all day. His skin is the color of the salted caramel ice cream at Bi-Rite Market, and his lips point to the dimple in his cheek. His hair is damp, which makes the wavy, dark-brown mass glisten under the lights. I suspect it will dry to a chestnut hue. I smell the faint scent of chlorine, and visualize him stepping out of a swimming pool wearing nothing but a smile.

From somewhere deep inside, I let out a little “Ohhh.” Not like in “Oh, dear.” More like “Ohhh Santa, bring me him!”

When his head turns in my direction, I know I should look away. I know I am going to flunk the PI aptitude test if I let this man catch me staring. Yet I can’t not see what he looks like. I hope there is a tremendous scar across the far side of his face (that he got in a duel) because then he wouldn’t be perfect, and if he wasn’t perfect, I might have a chance. Yet when his head turns and his eyes lock on me, I can see there’s nothing marring his square jaw and sensual full lips.

The corner of his mouth curls up into something like a smile. A self-satisfied one. I know I am gawking but I can’t look away. My gaze moves up from his mouth to his liquid blue eyes. If I had to match them to a linen sample, Topaz Olympus is the closest. They’re hypnotic and seductive and I feel like a deer in the headlights. Topaz Olympus headlights.

He winks. My body shudders, my grip loosens, and that expensive bottle of champagne falls to the floor. The impact dislodges the cork, which ricochets off the ceiling into the tower of flute glasses, knocking them over like bowling pins. They shatter into a million shards that rain down over the bar.

This is a sign. Anytime I’m attracted to a man, it always ends badly.

His laugh snaps me out of my trance and I go into disaster recovery mode. “Kyle, pull anything that might have broken glass in it. I’ll take this ice and dump it.” I grab the bucket and scurry out from behind the bar, getting some distance between me and the man who wants to be called Jackson.

I dump the ice, rinse the bucket out and put in a fresh bag. I look for Robert, hoping he can handle this. Unfortunately, he’s busy handling our birthday girl. Lois is looking a little wobbly herself, and is calling for Luke.

Maybe this is all for the best. If tonight had run smoothly, I would want to keep my business alive. This party makes me realize it’s time to do something new.

I pick up the ice and head back, trying not to care whether Jackson is there or not. I made my bed and now I need to lie in it. Well, maybe I shouldn’t use a bed reference in regards to that man.

As I round the corner, I notice they’re both still at the bar. My courage evaporates, until he throws her unconscious body over his shoulder! Her short dress bunches up, revealing a pair of very sheer, black, ridiculously flimsy panties. He turns to leave, and suddenly I don’t have a good feeling about this. What did he say to her about finishing her drink? I know she was drunk, but did he slip her something?

I hurriedly set the ice on the