“I’ll trade you,” I said.
He considered it. “Nah, gotta get back on the horse, right?”
“On the upside they go pretty fast,” I said, climbing the stairs to the long corridor leading to the main ballroom.
“So what’s the downside?” Gray asked, keeping up with me easily.
“Talk to me in about ten minutes.”
“Hmm . . . sounds serious,” he said. We walked out the double doors into the cocktail reception. I was tempted to follow him, to see how he would handle it, but I went the opposite way. I only made it halfway around the room before my tray was clean. When I went to the back, Grayson was standing there, just beyond the door, tray empty.
“You must have thought I was a supreme dick at my cousin’s wedding,” he said, falling into step with me.
“Tough crowd?”
“No, really. I’m sorry,” he said, bowing his head slightly, humorous sincerity lacing his voice. “I had no idea what a hassle people can be. I apologize on behalf of my obnoxious uncles.”
“No worries. That was a pretty entertaining night. Well, before—”
“I almost choked to death,” he finished.
“Definite buzzkill,” I agreed, discreetly checking him out before we trotted down the stairs. He held out his hand for me to go first.
“Do you know someone asked me what I was serving?”
“Oh yeah, that happens at least once a party,” I said, over my shoulder. “Eben and I have a running game with it—you make up some wild name that makes pigs in a blanket sound exotic.”
“So what’s the best name you’ve come up with?” he asked.
Not that the hot-dog game was a secret Eben and I swore to take to our graves, but what if Grayson thought I was a complete dork? I faced him as we waited in line for our next round of hors d’oeuvres. He seemed sincere, interested.
“Nitrate-laced mystery meat wrapped in fatty dough,” I said, fighting the blush that was creeping across my face. “But I’ve never said that out loud to a guest. Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.”
“Nice one,” he said as we reached the serving station.
A tray of cocktail franks was pushed my way by Chef Hank, an evil glint in his eyes.
“Figures,” I said, groaning. Gray snatched the tray before I could.
“I got this one,” he said.
“Really?” I grabbed another round of ravioli.
He swiped a hot dog off the tray, tossed it in the air. I held my breath as he executed his trick to perfection, chewing triumphantly.
“Game on,” he said. “Stay close.”
I followed him upstairs and back into the crowded ballroom. We worked the right side of the room. I kept my distance from him but stayed within earshot. Sure enough, Grayson walked up to a circle of older ladies, and a moment later one of them asked the dreaded, “Ooh, and what are these?” question.
In the smoothest, most serious-sounding voice, he answered, “Micro tube steaks in puff pastry.”
I bit my lip to keep from bursting but shook a little and snorted. Eben caught my eye as he passed by both of us and mouthed, Funny. Grayson kept a straight face, charming the ladies into cleaning his tray.
We met in the back after my tray was emptied.
“So how’d I do?” he asked.
“Pretty good,” I said.
“Pretty good? I thought that was kind of killer.”
“Okay, better than pretty good. I nearly lost it,” I admitted.
“I know. That was the best part,” he said, winking. He was one of those guys who could say things like “I dig it” with a wink and make it seem natural. There was something I still didn’t quite trust about it, about him being here, but he was slowly winning me over to Team Grayson. The cocktail hour had never been this fun.
Working at the Camelot had never been this fun. Period. With Grayson there, the night flew by. I found myself making excuses to be near him, all under the guise of helping him out, like showing him the best way to stack dirty dishes to get the most on a tray or the difference between the decaf and the regular pots of coffee—as if any of that took a degree in rocket science. He mastered it all, easily, and more than once I caught the guests flirting with him. I wasn’t the only one influenced by his stellar grin.
“So now what?” he asked, coming up behind me after he’d finished taking the last tray of dirty dishes to the kitchen.
“Just waiting until everyone leaves,” I said, peering out the windows in the double doors. “Then we can break down the room.”
“And then what?” His voice was quiet, low.
I spun to face him, aware of the short distance between us.
“And then . . . we—”
Eben joined us, peering out the door. “Are they ever going to leave?”
“I know, right?” I said, dropping Grayson’s question without answering.
And then what? My mouth went dry.
“Hey, I’m starving. Want to hit Leaning Tower after this? You can tell me all about Brooke and your Thanksgiving drama,” Eben said.
“Yes, that sounds great,” I answered, looking back at Gray.
“Why don’t you join us?” Eben asked him. My heart froze, waiting for his response.
“If Wren doesn’t consider it stalking, sure, I’ll go,” he said, eyes on mine.
“Yeah, you should come.”
“And they’re out,” Eben said, throwing open the door. The rest of us followed him, a black-and-white wave pulling tablecloths and stuffing them into giant laundry bags. I couldn’t finish the last task of the evening quickly enough, the thought of sitting across from Grayson propelling me at record speed. As I yanked the tablecloth off the last table, someone wrapped their very cold hands around my eyes.
I jumped, peeling back frozen fingers...
“Mads!” I dropped the tablecloth at our feet.
“Surprise!”
“What are you doing here?” She was dressed in thigh-high black boots and a black micromini, which would have been obscene if she hadn’t been wearing black tights. Her bronze ski jacket gathered at her waist, and her short hair was tousled and feathery. In my Camelot duds, I felt like a prime candidate for an ambush makeover.
“Bringing you a present,” she said, motioning toward the front doors of the ballroom. Zach was there, posing in a lewd way next to Sir Gus, while another, taller boy took a picture with his phone. A present?
“Mads?”
“Before you say no, he’s Zach’s cousin from Baltimore, in for the weekend. If you don’t like him, you never have to see him again, and hey, if you do, Baltimore is, what, like three or four hours away? Win-win, Wren.”
“Hey, you,” Eben said, coming up behind Maddie with an armload of tablecloths. “Come on, let me see this ensemble you’re rocking.”
Mads pivoted gracefully on one foot and curtsied.
“Gorgeous as always,” Eben said. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Eben, pretty, pretty, pretty please release Wren from her servitude for some fun!”
Just then Zach entered the ballroom with a howl, lumbering across the dance floor toward us like an escapee from the zoo. For the life of me, I did not understand what Mads saw in him. She was artistic, smart, and cool. He was picking a college based on its Greek life. My “present” trailed behind, his head down, keeping his distance.
“Mads, I sort of have plans,” I said, right before Zach engulfed her in a bear hug from behind.
“Oh, Wren, please,” Eben said, waving me off. “Go. Have fun. You can—”
“Grayson!” Maddie said, prying Zach’s hands off of her.
“Hey, Maddie,” Grayson said, plopping a giant laundry bag in the center of our circle.
“Since when are you working here?” Maddie asked, eyes darting between us. Once she and Grayson were talking, I got Eben’s attention.