Evie suddenly, desperately wants to say something to make this sweet man feel better. She stutters out, “Leah Pickford’s dress is very nice,” which is a white lie, because she actually thinks the dress manages to be both boring and sparkly at the same time.

“Yes,” Stewart says, knocking one of the drinks back. His narrow shoulders slump further. “Her little sister Erin designed it.”

“Oh,” Evie says.

“Indeed,” Stewart whispers, putting the empty glass back on the table. “These really are very good,” he says, softly. “I hope your promises come true.” Then he disappears into the crowd.

Evie stares after him, trying to process what had just happened. “Did you see that?” she hisses to Claudia.

“The concealer?” Claudia whispers back. “Yeah. Same one I use on my tattoos.” When Evie continues to stare into the crowd, Claudia elbows her. “Evie, stop thinking about it. We’re the wait staff, that’s all. Now either pour more champagne, or tell me about what happened at your interview.”

Evie sighs and rips the wire cage off a bottle of Krug with more violence than strictly necessary. “Ugh, there’s nothing to tell. He was kind of an ass, and I wasn’t what he was looking for. The end.”

“Huh,” Claudia says. “That’s not all of it, but imma leave you be until you feel like telling me the rest.”

Evie eyes Claudia thoughtfully. “You’re wasted behind a bar, you know.”

“Nah,” Claudia smiles. “Best place in the world. You see everything and meet everyone, and they tell you the wildest things.”

The next hour is an increasingly busy blur of pouring out drinks, clearing dirties and empties, and bringing up clean glasses from the hallway downstairs that they were using as a staging area. Evie’s unwinding the wire cage from the cork of another champagne bottle and telling herself there’s only four more hours to go, when an irritatingly familiar voice whispers, “Miss Cross.”

Evie glances up and finds herself staring at a broad chest in a very tailored all-black tuxedo. No, not black: a deep, midnight blue. She looks up further.

Right into the amused eyes of Misha Meserov.

“So nice to see you again,” he says, reaching over, languid and catlike, and taking the bottle of champagne out of her numb hands. His hair is slicked back, caught in a tidier twist at the back of his neck than it had been earlier. He carries himself as if he was born to wear black tie; like he’s walked straight off the set of some Great Gatsby remake. In a room full of fashionistas, suddenly everyone else looks like they’re trying too hard.

“Uh,” says Evie, because she is intelligent and classy. “Journalism or rent?” Misha asks, cocking an eyebrow at her catering clothes.

Evie feels a furious anger burn through her. She wants so badly to slap his pretty face. “Rent,” she hisses, reaching to take the champagne bottle back.

“A shame,” he purrs, casually lifting the bottle out of her reach. “There are stories here.” He snags two clean champagne glasses in his free hand, inclines his head towards her in the suggestion of a formal bow, and turns back towards the party.

“Wait, Misha!” calls Evie. “You can’t take—”

But Misha only raises the bottle in salute as he saunters off into the crowd. Evie watches him join a tipsy Stewart Pickford-Jones, who looks up at Misha like he’s the sun, there to warm his bird bones and his short blond duckling hair. Misha runs a hand down Stewart’s back and leans in close, whispering something in the smaller man’s ear that causes him to smile like he can exhale for the first time all evening.

Evie almost breaks the glass in her hand as Misha’s words from earlier in the day echo in her head: I tear them apart.

“Who was that?” Claudia whispers, awestruck.

“Ex-cop from New Jersey with a bad leather jacket and a polo shirt buttoned up all the way,” Evie says, biting down on her anger.

“No shit,” Claudia says. “Wow, suddenly everything becomes clear. You think maybe he has a sister?”

“I don’t care,” Evie snaps. “Yikes, chill,” Claudia says.

“Sorry,” Evie groans. “I don’t know what it is about him. He has a capacity to make me angrier than almost anyone I’ve ever met. Plus I think he’s trying to break up Stewart Pickford-Jones’ marriage. And I don’t know whether to be mad about that, or secretly happy, because…” She gestures towards her cheekbone.

“… of the black eye,” Claudia finishes.

Evie bites her lip and arranges basil leaves in a new round of the pink cocktails, hoping Claudia will drop the subject. She knows it’s petty to hate Misha for being smart and hot and completely uninterested in working with a woman on his own intellectual level. But she still can’t help the aching sense of shame it causes in her: that she’ll never fit in, that nobody will ever want to see what she can do.

Claudia’s opening her mouth to ask Evie more questions she doesn’t want to answer, but thankfully the husband-to-be’s cacophonous coterie of hedge fund buddies descend on the bar. Claudia grins at them, a shark confronting its prey. “How’d you boys like to try some Flaming Lamborghinis?” she purrs.