Behind the Scenes(68)

He doesn’t count.

I grab the bowl of fruit salad and open the door. I stop when I see the catering van in my rear view mirror. It’s rolling into the Mulroney driveway and I know it’s carrying food because the giant decal on the side gives it away.

I drop the bowl back in the seat. Of course a Mulroney barbecue is catered. They probably wouldn’t do it any other way. Suddenly, I feel incredibly stupid.

I thank Jesus I did not get all the way into the house with that fruit bowl. There’s a rain poncho laying in the back seat. Snatching it up, I lay it across the bowl, lest anyone see my horrendous transgression.

“Sorry strawberries,” I whisper to it. “Sorry blueberries.”

They’ll probably go bad sitting in the car, but saving food isn’t worth me walking into a party with a neon sign shouting “I Don’t Belong Here.”

I take a deep breath and exit the car, making sure to pull my skirt down before walking up the drive.

Colorful flags are strung from bamboo poles, creating a path leading to the backyard. To stop my hands from fiddling with my skirt, I clasp them in front of me while I walk around the edge of the house.

The backyard is massive, as well as lavish. It’s probably eight times the size of my apartment, with tall hedge rows along the edge. A stone patio stretches out from the house, ending in a sparkling pool. A few kids and teens swim in the water, and one of them goes down the slide and lands with a big splash. The water flies out of the pool and hits a group of ladies nearby.

The women pretend to be mad, but then laugh, all three of their similar wide brimmed sun hats shaking.

Against the house’s outer wall, long tables are spread with white tablecloths. Several catering staff members scurry around, setting up hot pans of pulled pork and sides. At the end of the tables is a full bar attentively manned by another waiter. The only thing making it similar to a barbecue back home is the southern food.

Gaggles of people are spread across the space, bringing the total head count to somewhere around a couple dozen. I twist my hands together and stare, unsure of where to go next. Not one of the people look familiar. Neither Mr. Murakami or his wife are anywhere to be seen. Neither is Simon.

I’m debating just running and finding a bathroom to hide in when someone calls my name.

It’s David. Somehow I missed him standing only a few yards away with two other men. Relieved to have been called on, I walk towards them.

“Hello,” I wave at the three of them. Both of the strangers are about David’s age. They inspect me as I come to a stop only a few feet away.

“Glad you could make it,” David smiles. “Michael, Fred, this is Sydney Andrews. Sydney, Michael runs a shipping business and Fred is an agent at Clear Coast Talent.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, offering a friendly smile. Both of the men are dressed semi-casually, with bright colored button-ups, but their shiny watches and perfect teeth betray their wealth.

“How do you know the Mulroneys?” one of them, I think Fred, asks.

“She’s Simon’s new assistant,” David says before I can answer.

“Oh.” Fred’s eyebrows furrow a little bit.

Wait for it… wait for it.

There it is — the sympathetic look. He smiles at me reassuringly.

“How is he doing there?” asks Michael, taking a sip from the beer bottle in his hand.

David’s face grows dark. “Well enough.” He glances at me. “I probably shouldn’t speak ill of Sydney’s boss around her.”

I wave my hand. “Don’t mind me. I have my own beef with him.”

The joke hits its mark and they chortle. I laugh along, although mostly at the thought of what they would think if they only knew about me and the butt of their joke.

“There he is now,” Fred says.

My shoulders tense up.

“Simon!” David calls, waving his son over.

I cringe and stare at the grass, waiting for Simon Mulroney’s look of disapproval. Instead, he wears a slight smile as he saunters up. He glances at the men, then brings his gaze back to mine. Our eyes lock and the familiar fire gets lit.

Damn him. He can’t be predictable in the slightest. Maybe that’s part of what turns me on.

“We were just talking about you,” David says.

“Lovely,” Simon answers, the tone of his voice showing he suspects the talk wasn’t very positive. He still looks at me, and my cheeks heat up under his gaze. Isn’t he worried about the other men noticing the way he’s staring?

“Seen your brother around?” David asks.

“Nope.”

David looks to the other two men. “Colt is probably busy doing something useful.”