Page 9 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

"Born ready," Dani says, snagging two wine glass from a passing tray. "Remember: you’re meant to be here."

We step into the ballroom just as?—

"Roz?"

Joel’s mother. Of course. Because the universe couldn’t just give me sloshy shoes.

It has to send me the mother-in-law who hates me.

I turn my spine to steel as I prepare to face her.

But moving around in soaked-through Louboutins is apparently a recipe for disaster.

Because my heel catches on the polished floor.

Everything happens in slow motion: my wine glass tipping, my ankle turning, my hand reaching out to grab something, anything?—

And finding the crisp white dress shirt of the most gorgeous man I've ever seen.

Time snaps back into normal speed as about four hundred dollars worth of Cabernet creates a burgundy pattern across what is definitely a Tom Ford shirt.

Whiskey-brown eyes meet mine – the kind of eyes that probably make venture capitalists hand over millions without questioning the terms. The stranger’s black hair, silvered perfectly at the temples, and the kind of bone structure that belongs in a museum only make it worse.

I hear the splash, hear the glass crash against the floor, but I barely register both.

"I'm so—" I start.

"What the—" he begins.

"Roz?" Joel's mother calls again, closer now.

I try again. “I—I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking. I mean, I spun, and then I tripped and thenwhoosh!”

The stranger looks at me, looks at the crowd before his eyestake on a hard edge, shifting from shocked to calculating so fast it gives me whiplash.

A few agonizing seconds pass with us staring at each other before he leans in, his cologne short-circuiting what's left of my mental processors. He whispers, “Doesn’t matter. You owe me now."

"I... what?"

“I need a moment of your time. Play along," he murmurs, then louder: "Darling, I thought we agreed to keep us quiet for another week?"

Dani, bless her opportunistic soul, immediately jumps in, as if waiting for her theater entrance. It’s clear she catches on. "Oh my God, is this him? The secret boyfriend you've been refusing to tell us about?"

I’m going to kill her. After I figure out what’s happening. And stop staring at this guy’s ridiculously broad shoulders.

"Rosalind?" Joel’s mother steps up, her Botoxed expression unreadable. Her eyes dart between me and the man. "I didn’t know you were invited..."

"Beatrice," I manage. "How... lovely to see you."

"We were trying to keep this quiet," the stranger smoothly interjects, his arm sliding around my waist with practiced ease. His hand is warm through the vintage Valentino, and I absolutely do not lean into it. Much. "But since my shirt's already ruined..."

Through my earpiece, Olivia whispers, “What the holy hell…”

"I don't understand," Beatrice frowns—or tries to, rather. “You and... I'm sorry, you are?"

"Having a wardrobe crisis," he deflects. "If you'll excuse us..."

Mr. Mystery steers me toward what I assume is the closest exit, but Dani steps into our path.

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