Page 6 of Christmas with the Mafia

“God, I love you.”

Quincy leans forward and presses a kiss to the back of his neck. “Your philosophy is seriously turning me on right now.”

I roll my eyes. “Do you mind? I am here, you know.”

“Not for much longer.” Quincy drawls as the car stops and a security guard wrenches the door open, the icy blast of winter reminding me that I only make bad choices in life.

“You go, girl, and remember to own it.”

“I–”

“Now!”

With a superhuman push, Quincy propels me out of the cab, and as I teeter on my heels, I desperately attempt to cover my important parts from the flashing cameras.

The cab speeds off quickly, probably in case I change my mind, leaving me to face the results of my madness.

The noise is overwhelming as the paps call out, urging me to stand in front of their cameras to share my humiliation with the entire world.

As I attempt to move on my heels, the slackening of thefabric around my breasts informs me that my outfit is rebelling against me and they may get more than they bargained for.

I clench my teeth as I hold my purse up against my breast in a vain attempt to disguise my failing creation and the fact it’s positively freezing my tits off, I attempt to move in the direction of the warm hotel and safety.

As I stagger along the red carpet, the revolving doors mock me as they get ever closer, the tears in my eyes freezing in the chill of winter as my mortification consumes me.

Everything is going wrong. I should never have come because who the hell do I think I am? A wannabe celebrity who gets it wrong every single time.

I reach the doorman, who stares at me with a quizzical brow, and I attempt to own my position here as I flash him with what I hope is a confident smile.

He holds the door open for me, and as I stagger inside, a woman steps forward with a clipboard.

“Name?”

“Um–” My voice is shaking so hard and my teeth are chattering as I whisper, “Regina Stone.”

Her eyes scan the list.

“Can you spell that, please?”

“Um, R.E.G.I.N.A S.T.O.N.E.”

She raises a quizzical eyebrow.

“You’re not on the list.”

“Excuse me.”

I clutch my purse to my chilled breast that is straining against the confines for exposure.

“There must be some mistake. I’m with Connor East—I’m his plus one.”

She trails her finger down the list and huffs, “He is on the list, but your name is not beside his.”

“Excuse me?” I blink in surprise. “It must be. He invited me.”

“But he’s not here — um — with you.”

Her brows are arched in a constant reminder of how stupid she thinks I am, and she says with an air of boredom, “He has arrived already with a–” She peers at the infernal list again.