The Peachtree Manor looked like something out of a dream I'd been kicked out of. Crystal chandeliers that cost more than my college tuition dripped from the ceilings, and the air smelled of lilies and expensive perfume.
I was dressed like a funeral director's assistant—a stiff white blouse and a black skirt that felt like it was made of cardboard. I moved through the crowd with my silver tray of champagne, my head down, my eyes fixed on the shoes of the guests. I didn't want to see their faces. I didn't want to see the pity or the indifference.
But mostly, I didn't want to see Silas Mercer.
I knew he'd be here. Martha had mentioned it with a "casual" tone that was about as subtle as a train wreck. "Silas is on the board, Alina. Be on your best behavior."
I spotted him within ten minutes. He was leaning against a marble pillar, looking impossibly broad and dangerous in a tailored black tuxedo. He wasn't even doing anything; he was just there, a steady mountain of a man while everyone else flitted around him like moths.
I pivoted so fast I almost dumped three glasses of Moët on a woman in a sequined gown.
Hide, my brain screamed.
I ducked behind a massive floral arrangement of white roses, my heart hammering against my ribs. I waited until I saw him turn his head to speak to a group of men, then I practically scurried toward the far side of the ballroom. I told myself I was being professional. I told myself I was avoiding a scene.
In reality, I was terrified that if he looked at me, I'd start crying. Or screaming.
I spent the next hour playing a high-stakes game of hide-and-seek. Every time the sea of tuxedos parted and I saw a glimpse of that charcoal hair or the sharp line of his jaw, I ducked. I slipped into the kitchen. I hid behind a velvet curtain. Once, I even pretended to be deeply fascinated by a statue of a headless woman in the corner just to keep my back to him.
"You're going to give yourself whiplash if you keep twitching like that, kid."
I jumped, the tray rattling in my hands. It was the head caterer, a woman named Mrs. Gable who had a face like a dried prune. "Get out there and circulate. The west wing is thirsty."
"I... I just need to check the—"
"Go," she snapped.
I walked out, my face burning. I headed for the west wing, keeping my tray high like a shield. I was doing fine. I was halfway across the room when I saw him again. He was walking right toward me. He wasn't even looking at me—he was talking to some guy in a uniform—but he was on an intercept course.
I didn't think. I just veered left, practically running toward the open terrace doors. I burst out into the freezing night air, the wind catching my hair and whipping it across my face.
I leaned against the stone railing, gasping for air. I was pathetic. A twenty-one-year-old girl hiding from a forty-year-old farmer like he was the boogeyman.
"You're a terrible spy, Alina."
The voice came from the shadows to my right. I didn't even have to look to know it was him. My shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of me and leaving only a cold, sharp bitterness.
"I wasn't hiding," I lied, staring out at the dark treeline. "I was working. It's a big room."
"You went into the kitchen three times in the last twenty minutes," Silas said. He stepped into the light, and God, he looked even better than he had at the diner. The tuxedo made him look like a gentleman, but the way he carried himself, the stillness of him, reminded me that he was a man who worked with his hands. "And I'm fairly certain you've counted the petals on those roses four times."
I finally looked at him, my eyes snapping with irritation. "Is that what you do? You just track me? Like a deer?"
"It's hard not to notice a girl who's trying that hard to be invisible," Silas replied. He wasn't smiling, but his eyes were soft. He didn't look like he was judging me. He looked like he was worried.
"Well, I am invisible," I snapped, the words coming out more jagged than I intended. "I'm the girl with the tray. I'm the help. Go back to your fancy friends, Silas. You're ruining my 'invisibility' by standing here."
"I don't care about the tray," Silas said. He took a step closer, and I could smell him—cedar and something spicy, like clove. "And I don't care what you're wearing. I was just wondering if you'd eaten anything today."
The question was so mundane, so strangely kind, that it made my throat tighten. "I'm fine."
"You're shaking, Alina."
"I'm cold! It's December!" I hissed, wrapping my arms around myself.
Without a word, Silas reached for the buttons of his jacket.
"Don't," I said, stepping back. "I don't want your coat. I don't want your pity. I don't want you to be the 'good guy' while I'm out here being the rude brat. Just... leave me alone."
Silas stopped, his hands resting on his lapels. He watched me for a long time, the silence stretching between us until the muffled music from the ballroom felt like it was a mile away.
"You can call me names, Alina. You can run into kitchens and hide behind statues. But you can't hide from the fact that you're exhausted," he said quietly. "Go home. I'll tell Martha you got sick. I'll pay for the rest of your shift."
"I don't want your money!" I yelled, the snap of my voice echoing off the stone. "I don't want anything from you! You're just another perv who thinks he can buy a girl's gratitude."
The word perv hung in the air like a foul smell.
Silas didn't move. But I saw the way his jaw tightened, the way the light in his eyes dimmed just a fraction. He didn't look angry. He looked tired.
"Goodnight, Alina," he said, his voice flat and professional.
He turned and walked back into the light of the ballroom, leaving me alone in the dark. I stood there, wrapped in the freezing wind, and for the first time in months, I didn't feel angry. I just felt small. And very, very lonely.