Brown-Eyed Girl #Wattys2017

Chapter 4

As Hollis Warner sauntered away, Steven’s voice came through my earpiece.

“Her husband is David Warner. He inherited a restaurant business and parlayed it into casino resorts. Their fortune is obscene even by Houston standards. Over.”

“Do they —”

“Later. You’ve got company. Over.”

Blinking, I turned to see Joe Travis approaching. The sight of him kicked my heart into a drumfire rhythm. He was dazzling in a classic tux, wearing it with unself-conscious ease. The white edge of his collar formed a crisp contrast to an amber tan that seemed to go several layers deep, as if he’d been steeped in sun.

He smiled at me. “I like your hair down like that.”

Self-consciously, I reached up to try to flatten it. “It’s too curly.”

“For God’s sake,” I heard Steven’s acid voice in the earpiece. “When a man gives you a compliment, don’t argue with him. Over.”

“Can you take a break for a few minutes?” Joe asked.

“I probably shouldn’t —,” I began, and I heard both Steven’s and Sofia’s voices at the same time.

“Yes, you should!”

“Tell him yes!”

I yanked off the earpiece and mike. “I don’t usually take a break during the reception,” I told Joe. “I need to keep an eye on things in case anyone has a problem.”

“I have a problem,” he said promptly. “I need a dance partner.”

“There are a half-dozen bridesmaids here who would love to dance with you,” I said. “Individually or collectively.”

“None of them has red hair.”

“Is that a requirement?”

“Let’s call it a strong preference.” Joe reached for my hand. “Come on. They can do without you for a few minutes.”

I flushed and hesitated. “My bag…” I glanced at the bulk of it wedged beneath the chair. “I can’t just —”

“I’ll watch over it,” came Sofia’s cheerful voice. She had appeared out of nowhere. “Go have fun.”

“Joe Travis,” I said, “this is my sister Sofia. She’s single. Maybe you should —”

“Take her away,” Sofia told him, and they exchanged a grin.

Ignoring the dirty look I gave her, Sofia murmured something into her radio mike.

Joe kept possession of my hand, pulling me past tables and potted trees until we’d reached a semisecluded area at the other side of the reception tent. He signaled a waiter who was holding a tray of iced champagne.

“I’m supposed to be running things,” I said. “I have to stay vigilant. Anything could happen. Someone could have a heart attack. The tent could catch on fire.”

After taking two glasses of champagne from the waiter, Joe handed one to me and retained the other. “Even General Patton took a break sometimes,” he said. “Relax, Avery.”

“I’ll try.” I held the crystal flute by the stem, its contents shimmering with tiny bubbles.

“To your beautiful brown eyes,” he said, lifting his glass

I flushed. “Thank you.” We clinked glasses and drank. The champagne was dry and delicious, the chilled fizz like starlight on my tongue.

My view of the dance floor was obstructed by orchestra instruments, speakers, and ornamental trees. However, I thought I caught sight of Hollis Warner’s distinctive white-blond bob in the milling crowd.