The boss takes a step back, looking at me as if I was a murder scene.

Still looking horrified, Richard shakes his head once and backs further away. Before I can say or do anything, he’s making a run for it.

What the hell was that?

I try to chase after him, but my gown isn’t exactly conducive to running. The full skirt certainly doesn’t help me navigate the crowd converging toward the center of the garden to listen to Christian’s speech.

Slowly, elbowing my way through Hollywood’s best, I manage to reach the edge of the group. Richard is nowhere to be seen. I frantically turn my head left and right, but he’s not here. Not caring that it’s rude to leave without saying goodbye to the host, I take the elevators down and walk to the wardrobe to retrieve my shawl and clutch.

My phone is in my hands as soon as the clerk hands me the clutch. I try Richard’s number… straight to voicemail. From upstairs comes a boom of applause and, slowly, all the guests start spilling out of the elevators and walking through the reception hall toward me. Well, toward their coats more accurately. Before the horde can trap me, I hurry outside. On the steps of Disney Hall, I try his number again and… get his voicemail again. Awesome. Richard has fried my brain with his insane eyes and made every fiber of my body want him even more, and now he’s disappeared.

Something boils in my veins. I’m not sure if it’s fury or lust, but I’m certain I’m not ready to let this go. He can’t dance with me like that and then leave me here to fend for myself. Sorry, Richard, but I know where you’re sleeping tonight. I hail a cab and give the driver the hotel address.

***

In the lobby, I pause at the reception desk. There’s a line, so I wait my turn impatiently tapping a shoe on the marble floor. The receptionist is a statuesque blonde who must go around LA carrying headshots. Around here, it seems every other person is in their job only temporarily, waiting to make their big break as actors.

“How can I help you, ma’am?” the receptionist finally asks me.

“I’m traveling with Mr. Richard Stratton. He’s staying in room 354. We got separated at a charity gala and his phone must’ve died.” The receptionist keeps on a kind expression, but she’s probably wondering why I’m telling her the story of my life. TMI, Blair. “Anyway, I just wanted to check if Mr. Stratton came back.”

“Very well, I can call his room for you.” The receptionist focuses on the screen in front of her, clicks the mouse twice, and then looks back at me. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but Mr. Stratton has activated the ‘do not disturb’ function. We cannot contact him at this time.”

“Oh. Does that mean he’s back?”

“The option can only be activated from within the room. So, yes, Mr. Stratton must be in his room.”