Page 119 of His Fury

I hit send. I waited. My phone let me know it had been delivered. I waited for it to be read.

Nothing.

“Isla?”

I looked up to the host of the event, who was approaching me. “Everything okay?” I asked, pushing my phone into my pants pocket and focusing on the here and now.

“I already asked one of the staff, but I can’t seem to find them again but there’s no almond milk set out.”

I looked over to the drinks station. “I’ll get that sorted now.” He hovered. “Anything else?”

“The pastries aren’t warm.”

I waited.

“They’re traditionally served warm.”

Where? Where in the world were breakfast pastries served warm at a convention?

Instead, I smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.” I left him before he told me the butter needed to be softer and the sugar finer.

On my way to the kitchens, I met half of his delegates mingling around the front reception area and generally getting in the way. There were far too many takeout coffees and brown paper breakfast bags clutched tightly in hands,which made me think that warm or cold pastries might not be the problem this morning.

Bring your breakfast to the conference seemed to be the theme of the day.

“Hey, everyone,” I called out over the racket they were making. “The conference room is open and ready for you. If you could make your way there now, that would be appreciated.”

The concierge came out from behind his pedestal and happily led the gabble of delegates to the room while I hurried to the kitchen to source almond milk.

“Hi,” I greeted the head of the kitchen. “Client wants warm pastries.”

“I want a million bucks, but beggars can’t be choosers,” he said gruffly. He looked up at me. “Pastries are warm when they leave the kitchen. They’repastries. They cool down.”

“I also need almond milk.”

“More?” He looked surprised. “Server just walked out of here with three carafes of almond milk.”

“I must have missed them,” I told him with a smile. “All good here?”

“It’ll be better when they are no longer taking up all my oven space and I can focus on breakfasts.”

“I’ll leave you to it.”

“I don’t like these morning events,” he called after me. “They mess up my schedule!”

I nodded as I hurried out of the kitchen before he started his rant. I’d listened to it twice before. It was longer the second time.

Back in the event room, I was pleased to see most of the tables full with pastries being devoured—hot, cold, or lukewarm, the delegates showing no preference. Everyone had a cup of tea or coffee, and most tables also used their waterbottles. The host flitted from table to table to do his meet-and-greets. I usually found that in breakfast seminars, all the networking happened first, and as soon as the presentation concluded, attendees rushed out the door like a herd of elephants hurrying to get to work.

This event was no different. By eight forty, the room was cleared of delegates, and the staff was in and the cleanup already underway.

Another event off the books and a gold star to me for it running smoothly.

I’d just sat down in my office with a black coffee and my schedule open when my office phone rang—the line no one used unless it was internal or vendor-specific.

I picked it up without thinking. “Isla Wells.”

Silence.

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