It’s a Small World

Boyd

Just like in the coffee shop, I spot her as soon as she walks in. The difference, the distance between the counter and the door at the café is about twenty feet. Here, she’s standing at least eighty feet from my spot by the stage, but I know it’s her. She’s next to some muscled jock with a neck bigger around than his head. It’s not the same guy I saw her with at Just Add Coffee.

She is stunning. Like a mermaid in her human form. She’s wearing a black sequin gown with the thinnest straps I’ve ever seen and a plunging back. It shimmers on her beige skin as she passes through the room. Her silky hair is cascading over her shoulders in loose curls, with some pinned into a fancy twist. Whoever the blond beefcake is, he’s lucky. Not just because she’s the most gorgeous woman in the room, but because when she walks in, she commands attention. And that has nothing to do with her looks. It’s her confidence and air of authority she possesses.

I attempt to walk toward her, but I’m stopped by a few schmoozing couples who need me for one thing or another. My words are directed back at the people speaking to me, but my eyes are on her. I know it’s wrong. She’s taken. She turned me down when I asked her out. I shouldn’t be focusing on her laugh as she speaks to a middle-aged couple, nor on the sway of her hips as she makes her way around the room.

“Boyd, are you listening?”

I rattle my head to free the distraction, so I can reply to Mr. Nicholls. “Sorry, Sir. What was that?”

Instead of repeating himself, he turns to see what my eyes were focused on. Once he makes the connection, he lets out a quiet whistle. “Miss McNamara. I can’t fault your taste, but her old man is a tough nut to crack.”

McNamara. As in McNamara Enterprises? As in the multi-million dollar import-export company that expanded into Toronto after starting with humble roots in a small town no one outside of it had ever heard of? That McNamara?

No wonder he whistled.

Not that I needed any more incentive to stop gawking at her, but that little tidbit of information makes the decision for me. “Sorry, Sir. You were saying?”

Mr. Nicholls drones on as Monica returns to my side. She gives me a questioning look, but doesn’t interrupt the steady stream of memorized quarterly progress reports Mr. Nicholls is sharing. Like I care.

I see another couple waving me over, so I interrupt Mr. Nicholls and turn to walk toward the elderly pair. But before I cross the twenty feet to get to them, I lock eyes with a stunning brunette and forget how feet work. We gawk at each other for a few seconds as she steps closer. Monica tugs at my arm, which is all it takes for me to compose myself.

“Sophie.” I nod and hope I can play this off as a casual encounter. I’m not sure what is more intimidating. Her family business or her.

“Boyd.” She glances down at herself, smoothing her form-fitting dress.

The brief flicker of her running her hands down her body is an image that will live rent free in my mind until I die. The pink dress she wore to the café showed her soft curves, but this gown is a creation straight from Heaven.

“This… um… this is Chad. Chad, Boyd.” She grabs the arm of the muscular guy tucked behind her, pulling him forward until he’s a step in front of her. There’s not an ounce of affection in the gesture. It’s almost as if she’s using him as a shield.

Still, my parents raised a gentleman. “Chad, pleasure.” I acknowledge him, but don’t offer to shake his hand. Instead, I turn my focus back to Sophie. “Is this a new boyfriend?” My tone is more accusatory than I intended. I meant to sound curious, not like a judgemental jerk.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your…?” Sophie nods to Monica with a slight tilt of her head. “I recognize you from the coffee shop. Nice to officially meet you. Sophie.” She one-ups my response to Chad with an enthusiastic handshake.

“Yeah.” Monica draws out the syllable, dropping her hand back to her side. “I recognize you. Monica.” She turns her head to me, intimidating me with one raised eyebrow.

Chad disregards the awkward introductions, turning to face Sophie. “Do you want a drink, Babe? I’ve got to go launch a butt shuttle, but I’ll grab you something on the way back.”

The three of us stare at Chad. I don’t know about the women, but I’m trying to figure out if the term “butt shuttle” just left his mouth at a black-tie event. Judging by Sophie’s scrunched up nose, she’s asking herself the same thing.

“No… thanks. I’m good.” Sophie redirects her focus to me and Monica as Chad walks away. “Sorry. This isn’t really his scene.”

Go figure. Never would have guessed that based on our brief encounter. Or his outfit.

“He seems… nice.” An involuntary grumble escapes me when Monica elbows me in the ribs.

Sophie pulls her shoulders back, straightening her posture. I have no right to look at a woman—especially not a taken woman—like I do, but I can’t stop myself from consuming every bit of her on display like a sculpture of my most specific dreams. Again.

“He is. Yeah, he is nice. And… pretty.”

I mumble a combination of “good grief” and “kill me now,” earning me a scowl from Sophie and another elbow from Monica. This evening is getting more insufferable by the second, and the thought of seeing Sophie on the arm of this moron for the entire evening is driving my mood south—which was already in Antarctica.

Without relaxing her eyes, which are framed with a deep, smoky eye shadow, Sophie starts, “What are you do—”

“Edwards, we need you over here,” Mr. Benton interrupts. He steps beside me, and recognition lights his aging face. “Miss McNamara. Lovely to see you, as always.”

“Good to see you, Professor Benton,” she replies, her face morphing from irritated to receptive in an instant. Every hint of her scowl disappears as she addresses the portly professor.

“How have you been? Still kicking butt and taking names?”

Sophie looks down at the swirl-patterned carpet. “Something like that. You taught me well.”

“You are too kind. I’m sorry to interrupt, but if you’ll excuse us, I need Mr. Edwards for a few moments.”

“Of course. Nice seeing you.” The woman who flashed through half the emotions on the spectrum in a matter of minutes is the picture of poise as she spins to walk away. She only makes it a few steps before another middle-aged woman in a red dress with bright red lipstick clutches her arm and pulls her aside. A woman who looks like an older version of Sophie, I assume is her mother.

Monica makes her way toward the bar as Mr. Benton directs me into the corridor adjacent to the convention room, instructing me about what’s coming for the evening. I nod and agree, but find myself wondering what happened to the guy Sophie brought to the café two weeks ago. Did they break up and she moved on to the blond? She said they were serious.

But whatever her relationship status is, it’s not my business. I need to refocus on what is.

Forty minutes later, we’ve listened to countless speeches. Everyone else is seated at elaborate tables, enjoying a five-star meal, while I wait in the shadows. Monica flags me over to where she is enjoying her meal, but I don’t have an appetite. I can see Sophie and her parents from my position, but I don’t linger on her. She’s seated between Chad and her father. I do look at Henry McNamara as he speaks and can feel the authority radiating off of him from here.

Another round of applause booms and fades as one speaker finishes, and Mr. Benton takes his place at the podium. He’s a charismatic speaker with plenty of experience captivating a crowd. That much is obvious by the attention of everyone in the room.

He gives a brief introduction of who he is and why he’s here, touching on his experience as a professor and board member at the Montgomery Centre for Business and Law. His reach in the business community is wide and esteemed. People hang on to his every word, coming to him for advice, prospects, or a pat on the back. Where Henry McNamara thrives on intimidation and brute force, Edwin Benton operates in a world of consideration and support. That’s why he moved into a teaching capacity, because he admits he lacks the “bulldog” mentality needed to run a successful enterprise.

What he lacks in cut-throat business instincts, he makes up for with his analytical approach and a wealth of legal knowledge. I have deep respect for the man, and if the look on his face is any indication as he calls me out on stage, I’m one of the many recipients of his mutual respect.

It’s not the look in his eyes I’m focused on, though.