Page 15 of Ranger's Oath
I keep going. A board member arrives early with opinions and a hair appointment that ran long. She wants to change her table to table one. “We can't,” I say with a smile that doesn't budge. “Table one is reserved for the family who underwrotethe coastal restoration project. You'll be celebrated at table three and have better sightlines for the stage. It'll look deliberate and exclusive. Trust me.”
The board member flushes, then nods. Of course she nods. This is what I do. I read the room, move the pieces, get the money.
In the kitchen corridor a line of catering staff passes like a river. That's when I see him. He carries a tray of glassware with the same balance as the others, but his eyes don't track where he's going. They scan faces. Mine. Gage’s. He sees me see him, and for an instant something like recognition dawns. He turns his head too quickly and slides through the service door.
A cold ripple moves across my shoulders.
Gage notices the change in my posture. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say lightly. “Production adrenaline. I need the live auction lots checked again.” I step away before he can pin me with questions.
He lets me go, but I feel his attention follow like a hand at my spine.
By the time we finish the walk through, I've solved twelve problems and invented three backups for the ones I couldn't. The seating chart sings. The auction items gleam. The dessert course will arrive on cue like dancers.
In the car, Gage studies me. “You're very good at this.”
I allow myself a small smile. “I am.”
The night of the gala I dress in silver. The gown moves like water over stone. My hair should have been styled into something architectural and perfect. But Gage wouldn't allow a stylist, hairdresser, or makeup artist in the penthouse so I was left to myown devices. I set my lipstick with a steady hand and slide a cuff around my wrist that was a gift from the board chair.
As I step out of the bedroom, Gage watches with a look that makes my skin heat, a look that says mine even if he refuses to put a word to it.
“Turn,” he says. I do. He takes in the gown, the slit that climbs my thigh, the way the neckline frames my collarbone. His throat works. “You need a wrap. It's cold.”
“It's Texas, not Antarctica,” I say, but I find a wrap anyway because I hate that it pleases him and I love that it pleases him.
When we step from the car the cameras find me in a heartbeat. I smile with my whole face. I hug donors I can stand and air-kiss the ones I can't. I whisper to the PR team where to position the step-and-repeat and which journalists get quotes. I'm the problem-solver people pay to be near.
Gage stays one breath behind me. His palm settles at the small of my back every time we move through a cluster. The contact should feel like control, but it doesn't. It feels like a lifeline, steady and hot through silk. It annoys me how much I rely on it, and it thrills me that it's there.
“Left balcony,” he murmurs as we enter the ballroom. “Two watchers, not staff. One keeps patting his jacket.”
“Donor with a nicotine patch,” I whisper back, lips barely moving. “He tried to quit for his wife and failed four times. He touches it when he's anxious. The other one with him is his son-in-law who feels ignored. Invite the son-in-law to the VIP bar and he'll stop glaring at the stage.”
Gage is quiet for a beat. “You’re like me, you see things I don't. It's part of what makes me good at what I do.”
I smile without looking at him. “Ditto.”
For the next hour I collect checks with my tongue and kindness. I boost the energy near the auction tables, plot a bidding war between two oil families who hate each other, andturn a banker’s complaint about valet parking into a networking win by seating him with the CFO of a conservation trust. I'm not just good at this. I'm a force of nature in heels, and the money comes with it.
Gage tolerates the parade of handshakes until he stops. The mayor kisses my cheek a second too long. Gage edges closer, and the mayor finds a reason to greet the person behind me. I should be offended at the interference, but I'm not. Well, not entirely.
“Relax,” I murmur. “He's harmless. Wife is two steps behind him and has eyes like a falcon.”
“I'm not worried about him,” Gage says. “I'm worried about you being polite to a threat.”
“I'm polite to everyone. It confuses my enemies.”
His mouth curves. “You're trouble.”
“Only for people who deserve it.”
The program begins. We move to a table near the aisle where he has a clean line to every exit. I deliver my welcome, crisp and heartfelt, and don't shake even when a dozen iPhones light up to capture the moment. As I step down, the chairman presses a flute of champagne into my hand. “To you,” he says.
“To the Gulf,” I answer, and lift the glass.
A different tray appears at my elbow, held by a waiter whose profile could be carved from calm. The bubbles in the flute catch the light like stars. I reach for it, distracted by the director of development whispering an update on the pledge tally. My fingers close on the stem.
