Page 23 of Whiskey Throttle
“And just in time, the crowd begins.”
I follow his line of sight without moving my head. The doors are opening. The invited guests are spilling in. A pair of society wives is fluttering in, wearing jewels loud enough to signal their arrival. Behind them, moving slowly and entirely unaffected, is Hollister.
My breath catches before I can stop it.
He’s in a black suit, collar open, sandy blonde hair tamed but not styled, as if he got halfway ready and dared someone to call it unfinished. There is an air about him. Walking with purpose like someone who doesn’t need to be announced. In all fairness, he doesn’t. Everyone in this town knows him. Know of the Harrington name and legacy wealth.
His eyes scan the room once, and even though he doesn’t look at me.
I feel it.
The pressure of it. The knowing and remembering. I set my glass down, untouched. Anton doesn’t notice. He’s too busy nodding to a passing donor, already preparing his next soundbite for the press. I watch the shift in Hollister’s stance when he finally spots me. Slight and controlled, just a tilt of the head and a flare of tension behind his jaw. No smile, not yet, but he’s coming over. Every part of me, every trained muscle of restraint, begins to vibrate with desire.
I shouldn’t feel this way about him. Yet it’s undeniable. The more he’s orbiting my world, the more he consumes my thoughts. The last couple of days, since our match at the club, he’s been present, more than I’d care to admit.
Catching my thoughts drifting toward him and rereading the text messages we’ve exchanged. Since the match, true to his word, he’s left me alone. Given me space, which I needed and despised at the same time.
What I didn’t count on is how he makes me feel young again. Alive. A second chance at youth, not saddled with raising a baby and figuring out how to be a wife and mother. Not that I regret my family. I don’t. Yet, part of me has always yearned to have a redo. Where I lived a life for me, before I lived a life for everyone else.
It’s an unspoken regret. Words that will never be uttered past my lips. But deep down, the resentment is there. Surprisingly, Hollister Morgan Harrington III, with his blue flame gaze and ruinously cocky smile, is chipping away at it. Daring me to live outside the life I have. Think of possibilities that could exist beyond charity tennis matches, charity galas, and lunching at the club with the ladies.
“Good evening, Ms. Barrett.”
His voice slides in low. Confident and intentional. It is perfectly timed and close enough that I feel the reverberation in my body.
“Ah, Mr. Harrington!”
Anton swoops in before I get a chance to respond. Making fast apologies to the small, less wealthy donor to swoop in on a whale of an art investor.
“Anton Prathmore. I’m the curator of the gallery. Welcome.”
His voice pitches up as if he’s spotted royalty. It’s only a matter of time before he signals a photographer to take their picture together. I hardly blame him. Any Harrington in the society pages attending an event is good for business. I would want the same if I weren’t already preoccupied with wanting the source, Hollister himself.
He doesn’t flinch when shaking hands, so trained for moments like these that reflect instinct. Yet his gaze remains on me, dragging down from my face and sliding over my body with such intensity and heat that I raise my hand to my necklace, forgetting I’m not wearing one. The action doesn’t go unnoticed under his scrutiny, and the corner of his mouth lifts slightly. Knowingly.
“What a surprise! I had no idea you were coming, or I would have had the guest list?—”
“A surprise indeed, Mr. Prathmore. I can assure you my attendance is nothing more than supporting someone dear to me in their interests,” Hollister delivers the line so smoothly, with so much lust-inducing intent, I wish I had gulped down that drink after all.
My hand drops from my throat, feeling a bit too vulnerable. I offer him nothing but a small, practiced smile. Just enough to acknowledge him. Just enough to say I hear you and see you. Then I slowly turn and gracefully amble away. Knowing he’s watching me leave. Feeling his eye trace every line of my silhouette as I disappear into the crowd. Letting them swallow me whole in an air of reverence.
Because if I don’t go now, I will say something. I will allow him to commandeer my night, which will be detrimental to both business and my reputation. Constantly circulating amongst my guests, dropping a well-intended hint as to who’s interested in various pieces and charging the competition between those who have more money than good taste, is how these openings do so well under my direction.
Spending too much time with Hollister will derail that and send tongues wagging at our connection, both of which I can’t have. Halfway across the gallery floor, I spot my son, stalking in, ready to growl at someone for having to be here. More than likely myself.
As many times as I’ve tried to repair our relationship after the divorce. Despite the damage done by years of reinforcing his brilliance and putting him in front of the best doctors money could buy, he’s still unwilling to treat me with anything but disrespect and disdain.
Unfortunately, it’s something he inherited from his father. Mothers should never give up on wanting their son’s love, yet his heart has hardened to mine, as well-intended as I meant for it to be.
When a server passes by, he grabs a glass of champagne, downs it, and sets it back on the tray. He is completely uncouth and mannerless. I plaster a smile on my face despite wondering if it’s out of rebellion or simply not caring.
His gaze lands on me, narrowing. I’ve seen this look many times in boardrooms, galas, and any event involving me. He stomps over and stops in front of me. A wall of barely contained rage and resentment wrapped in expensive tailoring. At least he inherited my fashion sense and desire to look his best at such events. Perhaps that’s one of the good things I’ve done for him, even if he’d never admit it.
“You’ve got thirty minutes, Mother.”
The same dark eyes I have are boring into me now.
“If you want your goddamn pictures and press or whatever shit this is supposed to be, better make it quick.”
