Concern and something else a little hotter.
My heart decided it was time to run a sprint. It took off like a jackrabbit chased by a pack of hounds. I said, “Just some personal stuff. My mother . . .”
I trailed off, dazed for a moment by his eyes. I hadn’t noticed before, but they weren’t only blue. He had tiny flecks of green and gold around his irises, warming those steely-blue depths.
And by God, the man smelled delicious. If that was his natural scent, he could make a few more billion by bottling it and selling it to men with less scrumptious—
Wait. What am I doing? Why am I mooning at him? Am I out of my ever-loving mind?
“Your mother?” he prompted, but I quickly stepped away, smoothing a hand over my hair.
“It’s nothing. I’m so sorry, I’m being unprofessional. If you don’t mind, Mr. Boudreaux, I’ll just get back to work now—”
“Jackson,” he said. He gazed down at me, eyes burning. His voice dropped an octave. “I want you to call me Jackson, Bianca.”
My sprinting heart tripped all over itself and fell flat on its face inside my chest. Heat rose into my cheeks. I said haltingly, “Um . . . okay.”
His gaze dropped to my lips.
Every muscle in my body tensed.
When he abruptly turned around and left, my knees shook so badly I had to lean against the counter for support.
What on earth just happened?
The next few hours passed in a blur. In between directing a setup and serving staff of almost one hundred people and ensuring the food was kept at the right temperature until ready to be served, was plated properly before it left the staging area, and that there was enough of it, I didn’t have a moment to catch my breath, let alone reflect on what had happened between me and Jackson in the kitchen. It was nothing, really . . .
But it sure felt like something. I had all sorts of tingling girly bits telling me so.
“Bianca!”
At the sound of my name being shouted, I jumped. I whirled around to see Claudia headed toward me across the lawn at a pace just short of a run, gripping her clipboard against her chest, her face pale as a bedsheet.
I said, “What? What’s happening?”
She hustled up next to me and blurted, “Mr. Boudreaux asked for you. He’s in the tent. You’d better hurry.”
I frowned, handing off two plates of cheesecake to a waiting server, who turned around and sprinted away with them. We’d gone through almost three hundred pieces of my ginger-orange cheesecake already, and though typically not every guest would have dessert, this crowd seemed especially ravenous.
Thank Jesus I’d made plenty extra, because the last thing I wanted was Jackson hearing complaints that there hadn’t been enough.
I said, “In the tent? Why would he want me in the tent? Isn’t the auction supposed to be starting now?”
Claudia—whose hair gel had failed so her coiffure was now frizzed out into a cloudy brown halo around her face—said, “Six minutes ago! Which is why you need to hurry! Go! Now!” She gave me a little shove toward the direction of the tent.
I was perplexed. “Well hold your horses, I’m going!”
“Quickly!” she said, flapping her hands and panting.
Figuring it must be some kind of culinary disaster, I went as fast as I could, my heart in my throat. I trotted over the lush green grass toward the enormous tent set up on the back lawn. It was all white and looked like something from a Cirque du Soleil show. Three tall, flagged peaks reached like ghostly fingers toward the twilight sky. Servers streamed in and out from open flaps around the perimeter, clearing plates and bringing drinks. At one flap near the front stood a young female server, waving madly.
At me.
Fried chicken, this doesn’t look good.
I stopped beside her and peered inside the tent. I didn’t see anyone puking, didn’t hear any shouts of distress, could detect nothing out of sorts in the murmuring, well-dressed crowd of hundreds seated at candlelit rounds.
I asked, “What’s going on?”
“Get up to the stage.”
She pointed to the raised dais at the rear of the tent, where a wooden podium and microphone stood, illuminated by a spotlight. Behind the stage were three large white screens with a backdrop of a shirred black-fabric cloth hung to hide wires and audiovisual equipment.
“The stage?” I repeated. “Why?”
The server threw her hands in the air. “Like anybody tells me anything! All I know is you’re supposed to get up there right now.”
I protested, “But the schedule—”
She turned and walked off before I could get anything more out of her. Then it didn’t matter if she’d left because at that moment Jackson walked out onto the stage and into the spotlight, and I was rendered speechless.