Page 11

Thatcher

I did my job tonight.

And did it well.

Maybe too well.

No, that’s stupid.

There is no such thing as a job too well done.

If Kenneth and Allie hit it off right away, that only means I get paid a ton for less work.

That’s how it should be.

So why do I feel like such utter shit?

My mood has soured more than the fancy craft sour beers being served tonight.

Thirty minutes later, Allie and Kenneth have paused from dancing to refill their champagne glasses.

“Oops!” I hear her little squeak in my earpiece.

I glance over the shoulder of Mrs.

Lanaham, the sixty-eight-year-old board member who’s been chatting my ear off for ten minutes about the importance of high-quality cat food, just in time to catch sight of Allie’s elbow knocking the server’s tray of filled champagne flutes.

I’m halfway across the room, way too far away to attempt to help and instead I have to watch helplessly as the entire tray of champagne flies out of the server’s hands, crashing to the floor in a spray of bubbly liquid and shattered glass.

“Oh my God! Oh my God, I’m so sorry! Here, let me help!”

Allie reaches for a napkin that’s on the table beside her and tries to mop up some of the spilled drinks.

“Excuse me a moment, Mrs. Lanaham,” I say, then turn away so I can speak to Allie without looking like a lunatic.

“Breathe, Allie,” I whisper into the microphone.

“It’s okay. The servers here have dealt with far worse, I’m sure.”

“Oh, but…oh no, glass is everywhere!” she cries and I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or talking aloud to herself.

“I know, that’s why you should leave it to the staff to clean up?—”

“Ouch!” she shrieks.

“Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh?”

“I—I cut myself.” She hisses as if in pain and I glance over again to see her looking down at her palm.

“Oh…ow, it’s really bleeding!”

I don’t hesitate and rush over to help as Kenneth is cradling her bleeding hand in his.

“This looks deep, Allie,” he says.

“Let me see,” I demand as I come up close to her.

She glares at me, her hazel eyes blazing with anger that would be adorable if she wasn’t fucking bleeding.

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” But when she looks back down at the blood running down her wrist, her face pales.

“You don’t look fine,” I say as I guide her to sit down on one of the chairs.

Stubbornly, she refuses and tries to wrench her hand out of mine.

“I am fine. But the sight of blood makes me woozy.”

“Can I please see the cut?” I say.

“Are you a doctor?” Kenneth asks me.

It takes everything within me not to bare my teeth at the good-for-nothing preppy son of a bitch.

“I have EMT training,” I say to him.

“Make yourself useful and find me a first aid kit.”

“Of course.” As he rushes off, Allie snorts at me.

“I’m surprised you don’t have a first aid kit on hand.”

I reach into my tuxedo jacket and pull free some tweezers, alcohol swabs, and gauze.

“I do,” I say.

“Then why’d you send Kenneth away?”

“Because he looks even paler than you do.” I press on the cut a little, hating that I’m making Allie wince.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“There’s some glass in the cut, still. I’m going to have to pull it out.”

Her hand starts trembling in mine, eyes wide and panicked.

“Can I at least have some more champagne?”

“Absolutely not. Alcohol thins the blood and makes it so?—”

“Ugh, fine! You’re such a mood killer.”

I sigh, hating how much that insult cuts me.

Jenna used to tell me the same thing.

Even if she was teasing, I knew there was always a little truth to it.

She was the lively, vivacious, fun half of our couple.

And I was the killjoy.

The bummer.

The one who brought the mood down, every time.

I swab the tweezer with one of the alcohol wipes I have.

“Look away if you have to,” I say, then as quickly as I can, I dig into the cut with the tweezers, pinch the edge of the glass and pull it free from her wound, ignoring the high-pitched whimper and tightening of Allie’s grip on the table beside us.

“There,” I say, wrapping the blood-soaked shard of glass in a napkin.

I press some gauze onto her cut, now bleeding even more without the obstruction.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” I say as I bandage up her hand.

“We’ll wait a bit for the bleeding to stop, then wash it and see if it needs any stitches.”

“Stitches,” she repeats, her eyes locked onto the gauze, rapidly turning scarlet.

“No. No stitches.” She moves to stand up out of the chair and sways.

“Allie? Are you okay?”

I barely get the question out before her eyes roll back and she goes down, her head smacking the corner of the table before I can catch her in my arms.