He took a glass, paused, and asked my name.
The charity dinner was a last-minute pickup: black slacks, white shirt, a tray of champagne flutes balanced against my forearm.
I had skipped lunch and dinner to fit the uniform, and the chandeliers above me kept swimming. That was where Russell found me, silver at the temples, wearing a suit that probably cost more than my car.
He took a glass, paused, and asked my name. When I told him, he didn’t look through me the way men usually looked through servers. He asked whether my feet hurt. I almost dropped the tray. Then he made the catering captain nod from across the ballroom and angled a chair behind a column, where I could sit without being seen.
