Page 17 of You Owe Me (21 Rumors #2)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Rumor has it, she's dancing with the devil.

Ainsley

The Dean’s Gala is exactly what I expected: all crystal chandeliers, overpriced champagne, and people wearing the kind of jewelry that could fund Greg’s entire aquarium for a year.

The ballroom reeks of old money and older secrets, with enough donors and board members to stock a small country’s worth of tax write-offs.

I grab a glass of champagne from a passing server, more for the prop than the alcohol, and scan the room.

Carter’s already working the crowd like the practiced politician he is, Eliza still attached to his arm and looking like she’s enjoying every second of making him uncomfortable.

Good. The longer she keeps him distracted, the more time I have to figure out what exactly I’m looking for.

“Ainsley!” A familiar voice cuts through the classical music and polite chatter. “What a surprise to see you here.”

I turn to find Dr. Paulson approaching, looking elegant in a navy dress that probably costs more than my textbooks. Behind her is a woman I don’t recognize—silver hair, sharp eyes, and wearing the kind of confidence that comes with decades of academic warfare.

“Dr. Paulson,” I say, forcing a smile. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Marine conservation gets excellent representation at these events,” she replies, then gestures to her companion. “This is Dr. Elizabeth Warren—no, not that one—from the MacArthur Foundation. She funds some of the most important marine research on the East Coast.”

My pulse quickens. This is exactly the kind of connection Carter was talking about—the kind that could actually advance my career if I weren’t here under completely false pretenses.

“Ms. James is one of my most passionate students,” Dr. Paulson continues. “She’s doing fascinating work on pinniped cognitive behavior.”

“Sea lions,” I clarify, trying not to sound like a complete fraud. “I’m particularly interested in their problem-solving capabilities and social learning patterns.”

Dr. Warren’s eyes light up. “How refreshing. Most students your age seem more interested in the flashy megafauna research. Tell me, what drew you to pinnipeds specifically?”

And just like that, I’m off and running, talking about the sea lions I work with and their remarkable intelligence, about the research opportunities at the Atlanta Marine Center, about the potential applications for conservation efforts.

For a few minutes, I almost forget why I’m really here.

This is real—my passion, my future, the life I want to build.

Then an unfamiliar hand lands on my lower back.

“Ladies.” Carter’s voice cuts through my explanation, smooth as poisoned honey. “I hope you don’t mind if I steal Ainsley for a moment.”

Dr. Warren glances between us, clearly reading the dynamics. “Of course. Ms. James, please reach out to my office. I’d love to discuss potential funding opportunities.”

She hands me her card, and I pocket it like treasure, knowing full well I may never get to use it. Carter’s already steering me away, his hand burning against my back through the thin fabric of my dress.

“Networking already?” His voice is deceptively casual. “I’m impressed.”

“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Me making connections?” I step sideways, breaking his contact. “Though I notice you’ve been monopolizing Eliza all evening. Should I be jealous?”

His jaw ticks. “Your friend is… entertaining. But she’s not why I’m here.”

“Right. You’re here to show me off like a trophy.” I take a sip of champagne, watching him over the rim. “How’s that working out for you?”

Before he can answer, Eliza appears at my elbow like a guardian angel in navy silk.

“Sorry to interrupt.” She doesn’t sound sorry at all. “But I need to borrow Ainsley for a minute. Girl stuff.”

Carter’s smile turns brittle. “Of course. Don’t be long.”

Eliza loops her arm through mine and steers us toward the ladies’ room, her heels clicking against the marble floor like a countdown timer.

“Damn,” she mutters once we’re safely behind the ornate bathroom door. “That guy’s as handsy as a TSA agent. I’ve spent the last twenty minutes dodging his attempts to feel me up while he asks invasive questions about you.”

“What kind of questions?” I check under the stalls to make sure we’re alone.

“Your schedule, your classes, your relationship with Maverick. He’s fishing hard.” She pulls out her phone, then looks up at me with a triumphant grin. “But I got his passcode. He checked his messages right in front of me—apparently, subtlety isn’t his strong suit. 051295.”

I blink at her. “Wait. You what?”

Eliza just smirks, popping a piece of gum into her mouth like she didn’t just drop a nuclear code into my lap. “Watched him unlock it, counted the digits. It’s burned into my brain now. 051295. You’re welcome.”

“Are we sure that’s not a nuclear launch code?”

“Only if the launch is targeting Maverick’s sanity.”

I exhale slowly, heart rattling against my ribs. “Okay. Okay, that’s good. If we can get to his phone?—”

“Big if,” Eliza cuts in, tossing the gum wrapper in the trash. “He hasn’t let that thing out of his hand all night. I tried to snag it when he got distracted talking to the guy from the finance board, but nope. Kung fu grip. Like it’s holding state secrets. Or his nudes.”

I wince. “Please don’t put that image in my brain.”

Eliza leans in as she reapplies her lip gloss like she’s prepping for battle. “Okay. So, how do we get the phone?”

“I don’t know,” I hiss, pacing a tight circle in the bathroom like I’m planning a bank robbery—which, let’s be honest, I basically am. “He’s glued to it. I’d have better luck stealing a kidney.”

“We need a distraction.”

“Unless I chloroform him and run, there’s no way to grab it without him noticing.”

Eliza snaps her compact shut. “What if he gives it to you?”

I blink. “He won’t.”

“But what if he gives you the jacket it’s in?”

Silence.

And then, very slowly, I turn toward her. “Okay, evil genius. Go on.”

“You complain about being cold.” She waves her hands like she’s conducting a criminal orchestra.

“He gives you his jacket like the narcissistic gentleman he thinks he is. Then you create chaos. Big, dramatic, run-through-the-ballroom chaos. Boom. He’s separated from the jacket. You disappear with the phone.”

My jaw drops. “I love you.”

“I know.”

“Okay. So I say I’m cold…”

“Damsel in distress but make it gala-chic,” she says. “And you’ll need a dramatic exit strategy. Something disruptive enough that no one notices the coat disappearing.”

My eyes land on the glowing red box by the door.

“Eliza.”

She follows my gaze to one of the candles burning on the bathroom counter.

“No.”

“Eliza.”

“That’s a felony.”

“That’s a future me problem.”

She sighs like a long-suffering villain sidekick. “I’ll stall the board members. You run like hell.”

I press a hand to my chest. “I’ve never loved you more than in this moment.”

“Just remember to look shocked and innocent when the alarms go off. Maybe throw in a little damsel flailing. Add drama. Confuse the security footage.”

We exit the bathroom like nothing’s brewing, like we didn’t just agree to fake an emergency to commit a light felony for the greater good.

Carter spots me instantly, because of course, he does. His eyes drag down my dress, up again to meet mine, and it takes every ounce of strength not to stab him with a toothpick.

“Everything okay?”

“Perfect,” I chirp, latching on to his arm. “We were just debating whether hot flashes can be triggered by bad cologne.”

He chuckles smugly. “Care for a dance?”

“I’d love to,” I lie.

We step onto the dance floor. He pulls me into a practiced, too-close hold, and the music drips elegance. I smile like I’m not actively plotting arson in my head.

And right there—pressed against his jacket pocket—I feel it.

The phone.

My golden ticket.

Okay, showtime.

I let a delicate shiver ripple through me. “It’s freezing in here.”

He glances at me, then—right on cue—shrugs off his jacket and drapes it around my shoulders like I’m a prized show pony and not a human crowbar about to pry open his digital secrets. “There. Better?”

“Much.” I smile sweetly, tucking the coat closer like it’s a love token instead of evidence.

He keeps dancing. I keep pretending not to be vibrating with adrenaline. All I have to do is wait. Let him get distracted. Then… chaos.

I grip the lapel of Carter’s jacket and lean close. “I’m going to powder my nose,” I purr. “Be right back.”

He looks mildly disappointed but nods. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

I flash a flirty little smile that belongs in a true crime doc and slip away, coat still wrapped tight around my shoulders.

And then?—

All hell breaks gloriously, soakingly loose.

The classical music screeches to a halt. Lights strobe. Alarms blare.

And then?

The sprinklers go off.

Not metaphorically. Literally. With the fury of a thousand plumbers.

Freezing water explodes from the ceiling in a synchronized downpour, instantly drenching designer gowns, rented tuxes, and at least three wigs. People scream. Someone slips. A waiter faceplants into a tray of stuffed mushrooms.

“Fire?” someone yells. “Where?”

“Is this a drill?”

“Do I need to save the shrimp?”

I’m blinking through wet lashes when the bathroom door slams open.

Eliza barrels out like a dripping, chaos-born goddess, holding one ruined heel in her hand and her purse above her head like it’s a newborn child.

She spots me, grabs my hand, and yells, “run!”

And we do.

Together. Like Thelma and Louise, if they’d been soaked, half-sobbing with laughter, and fleeing a fancy fundraiser instead of the law.

We weave through the chaos, slipping past security too distracted to notice the two drowned rats sprinting toward the nearest exit. I clutch the coat tighter around me, like it’s my ticket out of this mess.

Because it is.

Carter’s jacket swings wildly around my knees as we burst through the double doors, water still dripping from our hair, our dresses, everywhere.

We don’t stop running until we’ve made it down the steps and around the corner, out of sight from the ballroom and anyone holding a badge or a grudge.

My heart is trying to punch through my ribcage. My lungs are staging a protest. My heels have betrayed me.

But none of that matters.

Because when I finally stop, I feel it.

Tucked inside the jacket. Heavy. Solid.

The phone.

Carter Mills’s precious, overprotected, strategy-loaded phone.

Gotcha.

Eliza doubles over next to me, laughing so hard she’s wheezing. “That. Was. Beautiful.”

“Tell me I didn’t just commit a felony in four-inch heels for nothing.”

She straightens, makeup running like a soap opera heroine, and pats the coat. “Nope. Totally worth it.”

I take a breath. A big one. And stare down at the jacket in my hands. “I gotcha, prick. Nobody messes with my man.”