I decide if there’s ever a time to break my no-drinking-during-an-event rule, it’s right now. “I’m going to go check on the bar, you know . . . make sure they’re fully stocked and whatever.”

“Oh good.” Mrs. Rafter hands me her empty glass. “Do get me another one, won’t you, dear?”

“Of course.” I probably have a million things to do right now, but I can’t say no to Mrs. Rafter . . . even after she’s embarrassed me.

“And I’ll take you to your seat,” Quinton says.

She frowns, her eyebrows furrowing together. “I thought it was just open seating?”

“It is,” he confirms before leaning closer to her ear, “but I have a special VIP table for a select few, and of course you’re one of them.”

The empty glass nearly slips from my hands as my jaw falls to the floor. He does have a VIP table, just one, and not even Mr. Mahler is sitting there. But now, Mrs. Rafter is.

Shit. I might cry.

He offers her his arm and she slips hers through it without hesitating before he starts guiding her through the crowd. I’m frozen to the spot, watching them as they go, and he waves off some huge potential donors in order to give Mrs. Rafter his full, undivided attention. And the look on her face? Her smile being the sole focus of his? She is gleaming.

Yup.

I’m totally going to cry.

“Still think he’s a fuckboy?” Donny elbows me in the ribs. While he does ruin the moment, at least he saves my makeup.

I aim my sweetest smile his way and pat his shoulder. “Not as big as you.” Then I walk away, pretending I don’t hear his obnoxious laughter as I go.

When I get to the bar, I’m hoping to get in Paisley’s line because, well, she doesn’t ask me questions. But of course, as luck would have it, a group just ordered a round of shots and she’s busy tending to their needs. I cross my fingers they get so drunk that they forget how much money they donate tonight.

“This is amazing! I can’t believe you put all of this together. I’m totally calling you for the next event we have at HERS,” Brynn says as soon as she sees me.

“Thank you.” I look around for the millionth time, taking everything in. “I did do a pretty good job, didn’t I?”

“Fucking killed it!” She hands me a shot that I should not, but do, take.

I cringe as the familiar burn warms my chest. “Tequila?”