Page 77 of Twisted Shot
He reaches for the black mask. The same one from Halloween.
Tonight, he’s not hiding. He’s showing up.
For her.
CHAPTER 27
MILA
The ballroom shimmers like a Pinterest fever dream in the best possible way.
Soft blue uplighting ripples across the draped walls, casting a wintry glow. Crystal chandeliers sparkle overhead like frozen constellations. A string quartet on stage plays something expensive-sounding as guests drift between cocktail tables in floor-length gowns and sleek tuxedos, faces half-hidden behind lace, velvet, and crystal-studded masks.
Mila takes it all in with a deep breath and a death grip on her tablet.
She’s one champagne flute away from a stress migraine, but it’s fine. Totally fine.
A few things went sideways, naturally. Naomi nearly went full Real Housewives of Connecticut on the florist when the centerpieces showed up with the wrong flowers. The AV team plugged something into the wrong port and blasted ear-splitting feedback across the ballroom. And someone forgot to print the silent auction placards, which Mila discovered fifteen minutes before the doors opened, nearly giving her a rage aneurysm.
But they fixed it. Every single thing. Possibly with threats.
Now the ballroom is buzzing. The donors are arriving. The Whalers are circulating. The whole night feels like it might actually be working.
Mila feels a little frantic. But also? Kind of badass.
She moves through the event space, heels whispering against the ornate carpet. Her dress glides with her—a silver, backless slip of silk that catches the light like moonlight on water. It’s sleek and sophisticated, professional enough to own the room, but enough edge to make people look twice. She’s already had three people ask who designed it, and she can’t remember if she answered any of them. Her mind’s elsewhere.
She’s smiling. She’s glowing. Or possibly she’s just sweating in a very glamorous way.
But underneath the lipstick and posture and perfect lines, her chest is tight.
Because Theo isn’t here.
And every time the ballroom doors open, her heart vaults into her throat, breath catching—only to crash when it’s not him. Again.
Naomi materializes at Mila’s elbow like a well-dressed storm cloud, sleek and sharp in a black gown that flows like spilled ink at her ankles. She’s armed with a flute of champagne in one hand and three increasingly urgent reminders about the schedule in the other. Her tasteful ice-blue mask is edged in silver and dusted with tiny snowflakes that wink under the chandeliers, like frost catching sunlight.
Mila nods through Naomi’s rapid-fire notes about AV cues and contingency plans, but her attention snags on movement near the entrance.
Tall and Carter.
“Gentlemen,” she calls, striding over in heels that bite into her feet with each step, “thank you for showing up looking like the GQ versions of yourselves. Now I need you to circulate. Sponsors are arriving, and I want them to meet the talent.”
Tall’s eyes flick briefly to Naomi, then away.
“If anyone asks me about hockey,” he says, “I’m going to pretend I only speak Swedish.”
Naomi crosses her arms. “You’re from Jersey.”
Tall shrugs, a slow half-smile creeping across his face. “That’s the beauty of it.”
There’s a beat—just long enough to register the tension zipping between them.
Mila clears her throat. “Carter, I trust you’ll keep him from terrifying the donors?”
Carter chuckles. “It’s a full-time job.”
“Godspeed,” Mila mutters, already pivoting toward the next group of arriving guests.
