Page 87 of Snowed In
“What’s over there?” Christian asks, looking to the side of the room where small lines are forming.
“Bidding tables,” I explain. “It’s a silent auction for hotel stays, restaurants, that kind of thing. Besides one-off donations, it’s the main source of money.”
“This isn’t the kind of event where they bid on me, is it?”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I’m just saying if you want to make some real money, then—”
“Megan!”
Oh God. I stiffen as the first of what feels like will bemanypeople makes their way toward me, practically shouting my name for the whole room to hear.
“Kathleen Finnegan,” I murmur, as the tall, slender woman approaches. “Used to play tennis with my mother. Married to some pharmaceutical millionaire and has more money than sense.”
“Nice or not nice?”
“Not nice,” I say, smiling broadly as she gets within earshot. “Hi, Kathleen.”
“You look beautiful, dear.” She kisses the air beside my cheek as her eyes flick to Christian. “And who’s this?”
“Her lucky date for the evening,” Christian says, holding out his hand. “Christian Fitzpatrick.”
“Annette’s son?”
“No,” he says and leaves it at that.
“Thank you so much for coming,” I say, drawing her attention back to me. “Have you bid on anything yet?”
“Not yet,” she says, her gaze still bouncing between the two of us. “I have to say I wasn’t sure I’d make it, but when your mother told me you’d be joining us again, I had to see it with my own eyes.”
“Well, here I am,” I say with a rigid smile. “In the flesh.”
“And looking so well,” she says like I’d been infirm the last few years. “I don’t think any of us expected to see you back here after what happened. And in this hotel!” She gestures around us. “It must be sostrangefor you to—”
“Is that a Constantin?” Christian interrupts, and the two of us stare at him before Kathleen’s gaze drops to the watch on her wrist.
“Oh.” She looks pleased. “It is.”
“It’s exquisite,” he says. “Do you mind if I—”
“No, no, go ahead,” she says, preening under his attention as she holds out her arm. “I’m surprised you know them. No one under the age of forty seems to wear watches anymore.”
“I had a friend whose father collected them. I’ve always admired them. You have excellent taste.”
I shoot him a look, convinced he’s laying it on a bit thick, but Kathleen seems enthralled, and I stand there forgotten as the two of them chat about white versus rose gold and how no one appreciates true craftsmanship anymore.
When she finally goes, flattered enough to see her through the rest of the night, Christian just sips his champagne, looking about the room as if nothing happened.
“What?” he asks when I stare at him.
“You know what,” I say, and he takes my arm again.
“You go swimming in ice-cold lakes, I break out my luxury jewelry knowledge. Fair’s fair.”
“Is this what you were doing in London all those years?”
“I also know a lot about polo,” he says, and I laugh as he leads me into the center of the room, where we’re soon stopped by the next person. And the next, and the next, and the next.
