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“I’m not your—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he laughs.

I shake my head as they move further into the crowd of geriatric fat cats shuffling in a much less ostentatious manner than my friends, casting them one last grin before I weave my way out to the edge of the ballroom floor. There are still people lingering about; murmured conversations surround me on every side, and I’m struck with the realization that almost a half hour has passed since Ezra disappeared into the throng with his father.

I can’t help but let my eyes pass over the sea of people, but he’s nowhere to be found. No doubt still networking with Alexander. Although, after what I’ve seen of their interactions of late, I can’t help but wonder if it’s something Ezra actuallywantsto do or it’s something expected of him. I don’t know what’s more surprising about the idea of it—the fact that it might be true, or the fact that I’m wondering about it in the first place.

The crowd only begins to thin when I manage to wander pastthe ballroom and the foyer and the other open spaces all gated off for the party, slipping into the darker rooms beyond to explore. I don’t foresee Alexander leaving his guests for even a minute, not when there’s palms to be greased, so I assume that I’m relatively safe to snoop around.

Beyond the party spaces there is a sitting room that houses a grand piano and an array of expensive-looking art that is as tasteful as it is boring. Everything about the room feels sterile and cold, if I’m being honest. Nothing that really has me jonesing to hang around. I pause in the center of the room to slide my heels off, slipping the straps over my finger and letting them dangle at my side as I pad over the shiny wood floors into the next room.

There’s a warm light in this one that comes from a hanging lamp in the corner, and it takes me several seconds of gawking at the wall-to-wall bookshelves before I notice a person tucked away in a plush chair underneath said lamp, holding an open book.

“Oh,” I startle, no doubt looking guilty. “I’m sorry, I was just—”

The woman’s mouth tilts in a soft smile, one that looks genuine and amused. “Bored of the party?”

“I…” She’s still smiling, and her brow quirks in a conciliatory way. I puff out a breath, shrugging. “To tears, honestly.”

She chuckles quietly, the sound musical. I take her in then—her golden hair and her warm skin—but it isn’t until I notice the viridescent glow of her eyes in the lamplight that realization dawns on me.

“Are you Ezra’s mother?”

She only looks surprised for a moment, her brow knitting together and her lips pursing before she gives me a slow nod. “I am. And you are…?”

“Oh, sorry, I…” I’m all too aware I’m standing barefoot in a room I’m not supposed to be in, talking to the mother of the guy I’m seeing. Or…not seeing. Whatever we’re doing. “I’m Danica Pierce. I work with your son.” I wrinkle my nose. “Well, notwithhim. We work closely together.” Jesus Christ. “We’re at different firms.” I want to die a little. “We’ve crossed paths.”

“Ah.” Her grin is knowing, but what she knows, I can’t begin to say. “I don’t meet many of Ezra’s friends, so it’s a pleasure, Danica.”

“Dani,” I correct. “Most people call me Dani.”

“Dani,” she echoes kindly. “I’m Jackie.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I answer somewhat awkwardly. Should I go? I should, right? “So…” Apparently, I’m not leaving yet. Call it curiosity. I glance around her cozy hideaway; it doesn’t escape me that she’s practically dressed for bed, not a charity gala. “Did you also get tired of the party?”

“Not exactly.” She closes her book, letting it rest in her lap. “I don’t really attend these functions anymore. Not for a long time.”

“Lucky,” I snort. “How did you manage that?”

She’s still smiling when she turns her head toward her lap, but it feels less bright now. “Well, you know. We just agreed it was better that I not participate.”

We?

I want to ask for clarification—I am a lawyer, after all—but something about the way she says it gives me pause. Like it’s painful, something as simple as not attending a party. It makes me realize just how little I know about Ezra outside of what we do behind closed doors. The guilt that sets off is strange.

“So, you said you’ve worked with my son?” She blessedlychanges the subject. “If you’re from another firm, does that mean you’ve been opposing counsel?”

“Oh, several times.”

I must not do as good a job as I think schooling my features into something other than exasperation, because Jackie chuckles. “He can be trouble, can’t he?”

Trouble.

If she only knew.

“That’s one word for him,” I mutter. I shoot her an apologetic glance. “No offense.”

“He’s a good boy,” she tells me with affection in her voice. “He’s just got a lot on his shoulders.”