Page 81 of Empire State Enemies

“I hope the press didn’t catch that little show,” she snaps, blinking aggressively enough to sprain something. Her insanely long lashes have to be fake. I’ve never managed to successfully glue a strip of falsies onto my stubborn lids.

Connor, meanwhile, looks like he’s swallowing glass, his gaze burning a hole into me before he abruptly looks away. He shoves his hands in his pocket with a gruff cough.

“You guys should head to your table,” I say, wanting them away.

Far, far away.

Connor just grunts, shaking his head as he steers Willow off, hand on her back.

Little prickles of awareness I don’t want to acknowledge dance down my spine as I watch him attentively settle her into her seat, his big hand lingering almost possessively on her bare shoulder. Willow preens under the PDA.

“Well, fuck me sideways,” I hiss to Kayla. “That was . . .” I trail off, no words sufficient.

“At least Vicky’s done way worse in public,” Kayla offers.

She’s not wrong. But talk about an HR nightmare.

I sneak a few glances over at their table, where Connor’s sprawled back in his chair looking sinfully attractive. His shoulders stretch the seams of that shirt almost illegally.

Meanwhile, Willow’s fawning all over him, letting her nails dance up his thick forearm.

Connor catches her hand, bringing those red tips to his mouth for a brush of a kiss without breaking his stare. Smooth operator.

He leans in, murmuring something that makes Willow melt against him with a dreamy sigh.

And damn it all, their display sparks an unwelcome flicker of envy in my gut.

Willow looks stunning. That hair of hers—it’s like it has its own entourage of tiny hair fairies primping it. I’d kill to wake up looking half that good.

“They sure look hot together, don’t they?” Kayla remarks.

I grunt something noncommittal, trying to squash the envy bug. Hormones make asses of us all, I remind myself.

I’m supposed to be polishing Willow’s image, not making eyes at her guy. Or letting him get handsy with my dress. Guilt hits me.

Poor thing’s had her share of drama lately. Though I suppose being crowned Miss USA takes the sting off a bit.

I watch Connor order champagne, sending a bottle to us and one to his table.

Kayla bounces in her seat. “Dom Pérignon! Oh yeah, I’ll have some of that.”

I quickly calculate in my head—that single vintage bottle likely costs a full week of care hours for Mom. I debate trying to sneakily return ours for the cash instead.

I paste on a smile for the server who’s making a big show of presenting our bottle to us. “Super generous of him. Do send our thanks,” I say, voice dripping with forced cheer.

“Cheers to us!” Kayla sings out, lifting her glass.

I clink glasses with her, my mind still stuck on what a waste of money this is. I’d rather have a week’s wages. But I guess to him, it’s petty change. He probably uses champagne as mouthwash, and then spits it out because it’s not fancy enough.

Now my sexy leather dress feels exactly what it is—cheap pleather I snagged during a Black Friday blowout sale.

These people were born wrapped in silks and gold. Christ, the diamonds dripping from Willow’s earlobes alone could fund Mom’s care for the next five years.

I stomp on the green-eyed monster threatening to rear its ugly head. It’s not a good look, and it sure isn’t helping anyone.

“I wonder if he’ll be stealing drinks tonight,” Kayla says, giving me a knowing look.

I wince, the memory of my made-up “meet cute” crashing back. “Uh, yeah, maybe,” I mutter, not meeting her eyes.