“You planned this?” Mrs. Rafter looks around in awe, taking in everything with a cocktail in one hand and a plate of appetizers in the other. “I knew you were creative, but I had no idea you could do all of this.”

“Well, it’s less creative and more able to hire a lot of really creative people.” Even though I have a hard time accepting her compliment, that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy hearing it. And coming from the woman I’ve known my entire life, it means even more. I wish my dad could be here.

I give Quinton a thumbs-up, seeing if he needs anything when I spot him across the room. Not that he’s easy to miss—and not just because of the constant buzz that has been following him around. Always in the middle of a group, it’s like I hired a spotlight to follow him around all night. I swear, he’s glowing—pride even evident in his long strides.

When he first walked in for the grand reveal, I thought he was going to cry. Tears are always my goal. I love nothing more than making someone so happy that they can’t help but cry. Unfortunately for me, Quinton held it together. Also unlucky for me? The fact that he has never looked more handsome in his entire life, of this I am sure. And this is coming from a person who doesn’t even really like him.

He’s wearing a velvet fucking suit, for god’s sake! He should look ridiculous. Who gave him permission to be this hot at an event for charity?

All of this is terrible for me in a lot of ways, but especially for two big reasons. One, I don’t want to have to acknowledge his hotness. I work really hard not to think about it every time I’m around him. It’s super rude for him to thrust it in my face after he’s apologized and I don’t hate him as much. Two, if he’s looking this good, it takes away from all of the work I did around him. He was born good-looking, I worked really hard to make this come together.

Mrs. Rafter follows my gaze, watching as Quinton excuses himself from a guest I recognize as the sports reporter and news anchor from 9 News. “That is one handsome fella you got there.” She takes a sip of the manhattan that Paisley made just for her. “Your dad would definitely approve.”

I laugh because the thought of Quinton being “my fella” almost makes me need to get a drink of my own. “He’s not my boyfriend, he’s not even a friend,” I correct her. “I’m just working for him. He’s basically my boss.”