Page 79 of Twisted Shot
“Yeah,” Jake says, nodding emphatically. “Go do your thing. Let me know what I can do to help.”
“Thank you,” she says, walking away, eyes already scanning the crowd.
She weaves through the ballroom like a woman on a mission—which, technically, she is. Find someone. Anyone who won’t turn a mic into a disaster.
Naomi materializes at her side.
“Jesse’s gone,” Mila mutters under her breath. “Brooklyn called him up.”
Naomi blinks. “Wait. What? Who’s going to emcee?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
Naomi doesn’t ask more questions. She falls into step beside her, eyes scanning the crowd.
Mila spots Pavel and Tristan near the bar, looking like they just stepped off the set for a cologne ad. Perfect. She beelines over.
“Hey,” she says, too brightly. “Quick favor.”
Pavel raises a brow.
“Jesse was supposed to emcee,” she explains, breath tight. “He’s gone. NHL call-up. I need someone who can keep the crowd warm, read a script, make a few jokes, and not break into hives onstage.”
Pavel shakes his head solemnly. “No English.”
Mila narrows her eyes. “Pavel, I once heard you order a caramel macchiato with flawless pronunciation.”
He shrugs, not even pretending to look sorry.
She turns to Tristan. “Please tell me you’re feeling brave.”
Tristan takes a sip of champagne, then gives her a charming, lazy smile behind his black mask. “I could. But I don’t want to.”
“Awesome. Thanks for nothing,” she mutters, already pivoting.
Naomi is at her elbow again. “What about Tall?”
“I mean, maybe?” Mila says, spotting him near one of the sponsor tables. “He’s weird, but not bad with the media.”
They approach, and she lays it out again—quick, desperate, semi-hopeful.
Tall looks at her like she suggested he get a face tattoo of his search history.
“I am not capable of being charming,” he says flatly.
“He’s not wrong,” Naomi quips.
Mila scans the ballroom and lands on JP—the rookie, baby-faced and looking sharp in a charcoal three-piece suit. Hard no. Cute in a prom-date kind of way, sure, but the kid looks two seconds from asking when curfew is. No way he could hold this room.
Tall shifts his weight, eyes flicking toward the entrance. “Why not ask Theo?”
Mila blinks. “Theo?”
She turns, and joy rushes through her so fast it steals her breath, bright and dizzying, tangled up with nerves so sharp they make her fingertips tremble.
Theo stands at the ballroom entrance, hands at his sides, tux perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders and long frame. Midnight blue with a subtle sheen, sharp lapels, every inch of him crisp and elegant.
Damn, that man was born to wear a tux.
