Oliver and Dora had talked about me? The thought both petrified and intrigued me, so I crossed my arms and waited for her to continue. After a few seconds of frustrating silence, she explained, “Oliver is one of our closest friends—we met in college and he introduced me to Franklin, his teammate. He helped me get this job. He was the best man in our wedding. For reasons I’d prefer not to get into, I’m not a big fan of his ex.”

I started to tell her I was pretty sure Oliver could take care of himself, but instead I cocked my eyebrow. My next question was bold, so I hoped she was deep enough in her champagne not to flip out. “Then what was with that blowout on my first day, in your office?”

She looked confused for a moment, but then her shoulders shook with laughter. “He went on a date with one of my friends. It went as expected.” Thinning her lips into a rueful smile, she shrugged. “Oliver never calls for a second date.”

Ugh. Why had I even asked? It took my mind to places it didn’t need to go.

From what Margaret had scathingly told me earlier today—“He’ll be out celebrating Halloween with one of his sluts”—Oliver wouldn’t be here at all tonight. Since that was the case, there was no reason for me to let him crawl into my thoughts. Except here I was, surrounded by a bunch of people I didn’t know, letting the memory of blue eyes and a charming smile screw with me.

Dora’s husband returned, and when he directed his undivided attention to her, rubbing his nose against her neck and murmuring something, I glanced away.

“I’m going to the restroom,” I said, though I didn’t think she heard me. I tossed back the rest of my fruity cocktail. “Excuse me.”

*

Agitated, I returned from the bathroom ready for my next drink. I was still so distracted by the conversation with Dora that I nearly mowed over the very pregnant event planner as she approached me. Reaching out, I steadied her and she shot me a grateful look.

“Oh, thank God!” she said, sliding her bra strap beneath the cap sleeve of her pink maternity dress. “Have you seen Mrs. Emerson?”

Automatically assuming she was going into labor, my brows scrunched together in concern. Margaret would have a meltdown if that happened. Then she’d tell me to tell Natalie to hold off the contractions until the end of the party.

“Is everything alright?” I asked, genuinely worried.

“She’s supposed to give a speech in twenty minutes, and I wanted to make sure she’s ready.”

Relieved, I scanned the crowd, looking for my stepmother’s red and gold Wonderland-inspired dress that must have cost a fortune. When I finally saw her, at the same table as Michael Scott, I fisted my hands. Seeing those two together, letting those awful memories assault me yet again, tore me up inside.

“Right over there.” I calmly pointed Natalie in their direction, despite that old familiar monster—anger—flaring through me.

She clasped her fingers together gratefully. “You are a lifesaver. Thanks, Liz.”

“Of course.” As she walked away, I called her name and she paused, resting her hands supportively on her stomach. “Thank you for your hard work on all this.” I gestured at the lovely darkness that lingered at every corner of the ballroom and the celebrity DJ in the booth. “This is incredible. And I’m sure that the kids this night was intended for will appreciate all your hard work just as much as I do.”

Natalie beamed. “Enjoy your night, Ms. Connelly.”

Humming the song that was playing—“Radioactive”—I continued toward the bar. When Stella and I made eye contact through the crowd, I mouthed Getting a drink to which she responded to with a nod that screamed Told you so.

There were two bars set up, so I went left, to the one with fewer people waiting. Tapping my fingertips quietly together to the rhythm of the song, I wasn’t aware that someone was standing beside me until a strong hand touched mine. It closed around my fingers, sending a current through my skin.

My head popped up in surprise to take in a masked face.

Well, half a mask.

It took me a moment to catch my breath. There was something about a man in a tailored suit—especially when that man was Oliver Manning—and my eyes devoured him.

Finally, I licked my lips, causing his blue eyes to settle on my mouth. “The Phantom didn’t wear Tom Ford.”

He chuckled. The sound teased me, working its way into my skin, making it an effort to focus on anything else around me. God, I was a mess around him. And he knew it. “You remembered I enjoy Game of Thrones.”

Briefly, I glanced down at my costume and suddenly recalled the conversation in his office when he told me he was a fan of the show. I hadn’t even thought of that as I made the costume, but when I didn’t respond, he took my silence as a confirmation.

“And you’ve been ignoring my calls.” Releasing my hands, he fingered the wide, ornate gold belt of my costume, not seeming to care if anyone saw him as he brushed his thumb over the exposed skin between my breasts where the chiffon fabric met. I knocked his hand away and glowered up at him. “But, God, you’re too fucking much tonight for me to complain about anything.”

“I’ve been busy, and you have guests in town.”

“My mother has guests,” he corrected. “But I’d be happy to take you home with me and entertain you.”

Putting some distance between us, I swallowed down the pressure in my throat. “I was under the impression you had plans. Margaret said you’d be out celebrating Halloween with one of your sluts tonight.” At the amused turn of his mouth, I added, “Her words, not mine.”

“Margaret was wrong.” Splaying his hand on my back, he closed the space between our bodies again, urging me forward to the bar. “I’ll take Lagavulin, neat, and, for my beautiful companion,—”

“A black martini,” I told the bartender politely, before lifting my chin to Oliver. “And I’m not your companion,” I whispered furiously.

“Of course you are. You came here alone, didn’t you?”

I pulled in a breath through my teeth. “Why don’t you go—”

Whatever I was about to say was quickly forgotten when the fingers on my back dug into my skin. It wasn’t painful. No, it was promising, possessive, and it made my throat go dry. He dipped his mouth to my ear.

“Before you suggest I find another woman tonight, let me give you a small piece of advice: don’t let your pride make you say something you’ll regret. I’ve seen the way you react around me and other women—and the way my cock responds to your jealousy. The next woman I spend the night with will be you. Whether it’s your Khaleesi getup on my floor or one of those delicious little dresses you prance around Emerson & Taylor in—you and I will fuck.”

With that, he handed me my drink, leaving the bartender a generous tip before walking away without another word. I tried not to stare after him, God, I tried, but Oliver was magnetic. He was wrong for so many reasons—legitimate, disastrous reasons—and it was getting harder and harder to stay away.

But no woman in her right mind could avoid him, especially after he left her hanging with a comment like that.

Squaring my shoulders, I started in his direction, letting that force between us compel me toward him. I made it past the first couple tables, but then I felt a feminine hand on my wrist. Expecting to see my boss, I spun around wearing an accommodating look.

Instead of the Red Queen, I was staring into Cleopatra’s heavily-lined hazel eyes.

For once, I think I would have preferred Margaret.

“It’s so good to see you again, Lizzie!” Finley gushed.

“You, too. Are you enjoying your visit?” I hoped I sounded genuine. I sure as hell didn’t feel it, not when all I could think about was her hurling herself into Oliver’s arms two days ago. “When are you going back to Italy?”