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“You must try the duck,” he insists. “My chef flies it in from France.”
Amanda smiles sweetly.
“I’m afraid I can’t eat just yet. After a performance, my nerves take a little while to settle.”
Carter tilts his head.
“Oh?”
“Yes,” she says calmly. “But thank you.”
The man studies her for a moment before nodding.
“Very well. I’ll have something sent up to your room later, perhaps?”
Her smile never wavers.
“That would be lovely. Thank you.”
But she doesn’t follow it with the invitation he’s clearly hoping for.
No sultry-voiced, “You should join me.”
No, “It would be wonderful to have some company too.”
Nothing.
Just polite distance.
And something in my chest loosens.
Because even though she’s handling it like the professional she is—even though she’s keeping that perfect stage smile plastered on her face—I can tell.
She doesn’t want to be here.
Not with him.
Not eating duck or pheasant or whatever the fuck this is.
She doesn’t want to be with any of these puffed up, stuffed shirt money men.
Because deep down—whether or not she admits it—Amanda knows exactly where she belongs.
With me.
Chapter 9
Amanda
After I don’t know how many turns around the room—smiling, shaking hands, laughing politely at jokes that aren’t funny—I finally manage to convince Carter that I’m exhausted.
The adrenaline from performing is fading now, leaving me shaky and drained.
“Miss Perkins, Amanda,” Carter says, still hovering beside me like a persistent shadow. “This was a tremendous success.”
“Thank you. I’m so glad you’re pleased with my performance,” I reply warmly, even though my cheeks hurt from smiling.
“This little weekend continues tomorrow, of course. A luncheon encore for the guests who arrive in the morning, followed by a champagne breakfast before you return to New York.”
