Chapter 11 | The Gala: Part One

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"Watch the tiers!" I wince when it leans dangerously close to one side

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"Watch the tiers!" I wince when it leans dangerously close to one side.

"Oh, crap!" Mara throws her body weight to the other side in an attempt to save my three-tier coral reef cake from falling on the ground. Except she clearly overestimates her strength because she veers a little too to the left and then she's running sideways.

And she doesn't stop.

I squawk and chase after her, wobbling on my heels that I had no business wearing when I have the coordination skills of an infant. My ankles twist, eliciting a steady chant of ow ow ow's as I run after her with my feet pointing toward each other. It's so painful I'm considering getting on my knuckles and just hobbling after her like Tarzan. He made it look so easy, with those strong calves and solid chest and dreamy abs...

I'm getting carried away. Not that I blame myself. Watching him in your thirties is like porn. He can fight a cheetah with his bare hands for fuck's sake. Why isn't he appreciated more?

Mara bumps into one of the guards standing outside the Swedish American Hall, one of the fanciest and most lavish venues in San Francisco. He catches her by her upper arms and straightens her up effortlessly. Dude is huge. I almost forget about my Tarzan fantasy when I get a good look at his humongous built encased is a suit that molds to his mountain physique. Almost.

"Thanks," Mara breathes with a sigh of relief and looks over her shoulder. Then her jaw drops. "Holy shit."

It's super adorable that Gigantor goes red in the face at that remark, holding his hands in front of him and clearing his throat. "Name and event listing, please?"

"Sierra Lancaster, here for the SF Player Management fundraiser gala."

I take the tier from Mara who still hasn't bothered picking her tongue off the floor. The rest of the cakes have been taken inside so I'm hoping I can manage this one without dropping it. Jesus, it's heavy. No wonder little Mara nearly folded in half trying to carry it. She's, like, half my size.

An image of a hamster trying to eat a banana comes to mind when I look between her and the bodyguard. I suppress a snort at the visual and take my mind out of the gutter. Bad Sierra.

"You're in Freja Hall." The guard holds a stamping machine up but I can't exactly let go of the tier and offer my hand.

"Uh, you can stamp it on my forehead?"

"No, Miss. I cannot."

"Didn't know these things had rules. Fine, then. My shoulder?"

He looks like he has no idea what to do. I don't think he's ever been put in a position like this. That's probably why he reluctantly stamps my upper arm, right where my shoulder is. I pull my head in to look at it, feeling the way my second chin pops out with that maneuver.

"Cool. Always wanted a tat."

"It's temporary, Miss."

"Well, duh. I'm clearly joking. Mara, teach the nice man to loosen up."

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