The Work Wife

Gala

I'm dragged away from the check-in table when the sequin-jacketed woman reappears, her glittering shoulders leading the charge as she complains loudly about the food line taking far too long. Apparently, Susan had abandoned the order we painstakingly planned and was now releasing tables to the buffet at random. The ballroom is a mess of confusion, with guests just hopping into the line, unaware that there was an order.

I let the sequin lady cut in front of a younger couple, which was acknowledged with a huff, and was just starting to feel triumphant when one of the waitstaff corners me. 

"Guests are complaining about the satin napkins. Says they won't stay on the table," he whispers urgently. I groan internally. I'd tried to talk Susan out of satin weeks ago, but no, she insisted everything needed to "shine."

Luckily, the caterers have a stash of simple black cloth napkins. I drop them at the end of the buffet line like a peace offering and am about to breathe a sigh of relief when another guest approaches, her tone dripping with disdain.

"Five thousand dollars as the starting bid for a weekend in Aspen? I could book the whole trip for half that through my agent," she complains, her perfectly manicured nails tapping a silent auction flyer.

I plaster on my brightest event-coordinator smile and reply, "Well, this is a fundraiser! Remember, your money goes to a great cause if you win."

She gives me an eye roll and stalks off toward the bar, leaving me standing there, silently agreeing with her. Five grand is absurd, but hey, there had to be someone here willing to bid that much if only for the tax write-off. Right?

I'm about to head toward the food line to finally grab a plate when my phone buzzes against my thigh. My dress may be simple and not as body-hugging as Ainslee's, but it has pockets! 

I slide my phone out and glance at the screen—it's Chase. My eyes dart up, scanning the ballroom. With nearly two hundred guests milling around under the soft, mood-lit glow, spotting him is like finding a needle in a glittering haystack.

I glance at the text and groan. It's about Logan. Apparently, he's arrived and wants to know which table he's at. I'm about to type out a response when I hear my name.

I look up to see Ainslee gliding toward me, Chase trailing close behind her with another man walking alongside them.

"I just texted you," Chase says as they reach me.

I wave my phone slightly. "Yeah, I saw."

He gestures toward the man beside him. "Was wondering where to seat Logan here. Logan, you remember Stella?"

I do a double take, blinking at the stranger as he smiles and extends a hand.

"Don't know if you remember me," he says with a tilt of his head. "I'm Logan, a friend of Chase's."

I want to laugh, but I hold it in. The Logan I remember looks nothing like the polished man standing before me.

Last summer, Logan was all chaos and carefree rebellion with long, unkempt blondish hair tied into a messy bun, a dark beard that hung untrimmed off his face, and a wardrobe of beer-logo T-shirts paired with cutoff jeans. His wrists were stacked with beaded bracelets, and an arrowhead dangled from a leather string around his neck.

This Logan is almost unrecognizable. His hair is cut short, still casually tousled but deliberate. The beard is short and neatly trimmed, his broad shoulders fill out a tailored navy suit, and there's a silver watch on his wrist that complements his tie pin. The bracelets and arrowhead necklace are gone, replaced by a sleek, grown-up sophistication.