It didn’t take long for the dance floor to fill, and after a couple of songs I struggled out of my jacket and headed back to hang it on my chair. Turns out a dinner suit is the worst for dancing, even worse than denim cut-offs soaked in festival mud. Beads of sweat were trickling behind my collar when I caught Owen’s eyes on me.

I dithered like a guilty teenager. There were plenty of suits on the dancefloor, but should I be upholding Tenecore’s dignity or something? I cleared my throat and sat down, reaching for my wine glass.

“Here.” He replaced it with a tumbler of iced water.

“Oh, thanks.” I’d been keen on the wine, but the water was like a cool dip in a fancy hotel pool. Right choice.  

“Looks like you’re enjoying yourself.” He handed me a neatly folded handkerchief. Seriously, was this guy real? I mopped my forehead as discreetly as I could.

“Owen! Owen Varanor!” A woman in a gem-encrusted dress draped herself over Owen from behind his chair.

Gregory gave up his seat for her, and she immediately clung to Owen’s arm, murmuring tipsily into his collar. He shot me an alarmed look, and I bit down on the grin that was threatening to overtake my face. The rarely discomforted Owen could only sit ramrod straight while Gregory telegraphed to a middle-aged man to come and collect his handsy wife.

I’d expected the fellow to be cranky, but he merely chuckled and called over a waiter for a couple of glasses of whiskey. Soon Owen was swarmed with suits, and I understood what Gregory had meant when he said that the boss usually avoided such events.

I gulped down the rest of my water and escaped to the dancefloor, fancying Owen’s plaintive eyes upon my retreating back. That’s why he got paid the big bucks, after all.

The night swam by, and when Beryllia dragged us over for a round of espresso martinis I knew things were about to get messy. Over my shoulder, the whiskey drinking crew had pressed at least one glass into Owen's hand and he was looking slightly out of focus.

By the time we put Colin in a taxi with an extra tip, the orange lights of a garbage truck were flashing further along the street. I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see Bradley, still neat as a pin in his dark suit, holding out a hand in the direction of Owen’s car.

In the back seat, Owen was sitting with his hands clasped in his lap. The only difference between this and his usual demeanour was a slight tilt to his head as it lay on the headrest. And the fact that his eyes were closed.

Still a little tipsy, I waved a hand in front of his face. No response. Some small devil prompted me to lean over to check if he was truly asleep. 

Thanks to those last few espresso martinis, I overestimated my balance.

“Ooof.” My face hit Owen’s chest for the second time that evening. A wide hand came up to cover the back of my head, and his warm breath tickled my ear.

The smell of whiskey was so strong, how much had he drunk? I felt a little bad for him. Turns out peer pressure is a thing even when you’re a company CEO.

“Mmnf.” His hand rubbed the back of my head, fingers carding my hair. My heart thumped harder. Then Bradley’s door thunked closed and I desperately wiggled free, catching the butler’s eye in the rear-view mirror. He looked away quickly, but not before I thought I caught a smirk.