Chapter Text
Damn it, he’d goofed. Stiles let out a resigned breath as he looked up at the wrought-iron gate and intricate stone façade of the Four Seasons. This seemed like the right place, given the stream of luxury vehicles inching along in front of him, but he heavily suspected that he was queued up at the wrong entrance. When he caught sight of the uniformed valets rushing about several cars in front of him, he definitely knew he was at the wrong entrance.
Fancy people in their fancy cars with their fancy functions in their fancy hotels, he sighed inwardly. There were stanchions separating him from the next lane, so he couldn’t easily maneuver the bakery van out of line. Slumping slightly with resignation, he waited it out, and smiled apologetically at the valet who walked up to him when he’d moved up in the procession of cars. He mimed his best impression of ‘I turned too early and I’m looping around back!’ as the other man neared. The valet, who looked to be about the same age as Stiles and an expert at interpreting overexaggerated gestures (or more likely, the guy was simply just literate and could read the bakery name on his van), nodded his understanding and waved him through.
Returning his own wave of thanks, Stiles pulled out of the guest entrance and looped back around Wilshire onto El Camino. This time, he found the service lane and turned in with a relieved huff. At least he’d left for the delivery early, so the lost time hadn’t made him late. He’d been doing this summer job at the bakery for just over a month, and messing up so soon wouldn’t have made a very good impression.
He parked behind a couple of other delivery vehicles, and pulled the key out of the ignition. Whatever event was going on tonight, they’d really gone all out. From what he could see, there was an orchestral equipment and a florist van unloading ahead of him, and if he wasn’t mistaken, the ‘Ice Dreams’ logo he’d also glimpsed up front specialized in ice sculptures. He was going to be jostling for space as he brought in the pastries and cakes. Mentally steeling himself for the task, he grabbed the purchase order he’d tossed onto the passenger seat earlier, and went around back to transfer the goods. Being still new at Whimsical, a little boutique bakery located out of Pasadena, he didn’t want to mess this up. It had been difficult finding a job to begin with, but more importantly, he needed the money, especially with his growing tuition debt and his on-going quest to not burden his already overworked dad.
The smell of sugar and butter and everything glorious wafted over him as he opened the van’s rear door. He inhaled, and smiled appreciatively. Yup, money was good, but he had to admit – and without shame – that getting first dibs to the day’s leftover products was a bonus too. An abandoned trolley sat against the building a few feet behind him, which he gratefully grabbed. Hooray for other working grunts like him who couldn’t be bothered to return hotel equipment to their proper places! Having something to carry all the different trays would save him multiple trips.
Working carefully – because all he needed was for his uncoordinated self to drop several grand worth of sugar, meringue, and fondant work – he managed to load everything onto the purloined trolley, and make his way into the service entrance. A quick chat with some hotel staff led him to the main ballroom through a winding maze of back corridors, but when he entered the main venue, his trolley leading the way, he had to pause a moment in wonder.
He could understand why the event planner had gotten Whimsical to make the desserts instead of the in-house catering staff. From the rose-covered trellises to the oversized flora to fantastical signposts to colourful centerpieces, streamers of every shade billowed out from the crystal chandeliers, creating the illusion being in the underside of oversized mushrooms, while fairy lights twinkled behind the decorative forest silhouette that lined the walls, an enchanting contrast against the dimness of the entire room.
Stiles felt like he’d walked into a wonderland. No, literally, he’d walked into Wonderland. The theme of the event obviously had something to do with Alice in Wonderland, and Whimsical’s specialty was … well, whimsical creations. Molly, the owner and baker, made a mean pastry, but was also quite well-known for her fantastical desserts and kooky designs. Stiles should know. Mouth agape and drooling, he’d watched her put together the most gravity-defying cake just yesterday. Seriously, it was like watching a cooking channel show live, without the commercials and with all the three-dimensional sugar porn.
“You must be the dessert.”
Stiles swallowed his awe, and re-focused on the woman in front of him. Her attention was already on her clipboard, scanning it for just a second before she pointed her pen toward the far corner to the right of the raised stage.
“You can set up over there,” she instructed as she readjusted her trendy cats-eye glasses. “Just find me or one of my assistants to sign off when you’re done.”
Stiles nodded. Never waste the time of a woman with a clipboard and a pencil skirt. “Yes, ma’am.”
Marching orders received, he pushed the trolley over to his assigned area, and gave the staff setting up the chaffing dishes a table over a small smile and a quick greeting. He could hear the muffled voices of the arriving guests milling outside the ballroom, likely mingling and drinking, so he probably had a decent block of time to set up. He smoothed out the trippy, polka-dot tablecloth and started laying out his spread. Luckily, there weren’t any layered cakes involved, just fantastically designed petit fours, eclairs, and tarts, so the task didn’t require too much manual dexterity. Molly had gone over the setup with him before he’d left the bakery, and if there was one selling point he did possess, it was his memory. When everything was arranged into a pleasing palette of multi-colored yumminess, he did one last run-through of the purchase order.
Everything looked good except … Crap, he was missing a dozen tarts. And the pretty strawberry ones too. He knew Molly had checked the order before loading it, so it must still be in the van. Rolling his eyes at the oversight, he hurried back to the van with the now-empty cart, dodging several just-as-busy bodies along the service corridor along the way. He slid the trolley back where he’d found it beside the building, and quickly rummaged through the back of the vehicle for the missed tarts. The small white box sat innocently enough on the left side of the van’s spacious trunk.
He narrowed his eyes and huffed, swearing the box must’ve hidden itself away when he’d been loading the cart just minutes earlier. “Oh, you little …”
He grabbed the tarts – with authority too – and started his way back to the ballroom. The buzzing of his phone slowed his stride somewhat halfway there. Shifting the box to one hand, he pulled the thing out of his pocket and glanced at the caller ID before answering. “Hey, Scott. Whatever it is, it’d better be important because I’m at work still,” he said without preamble.
“Oh, sorry, buddy. I didn’t realize.” Stiles struggled to detect any contriteness in his best friend’s tone. “How’s the new job?”
Sometimes, Stiles wondered if he and Scott had different definitions of important. The guy was lucky he was cute. And a good friend. Seeing a turn a few feet away, he stepped aside so as to not disrupt the flow of foot traffic as he talked. “It’s good. Just setting up a table for a fancy function right now. You should see this hotel, Scotty. The Four Seasons, in Beverly Hills. It’s all old Hollywood glamour on the outside with gargoyles and everything!”
“Gargoyles, huh? Do you come alive at night and protect the city?” Scott’s voice was a mix of playfulness and genuine curiosity.
“No, Scott, they do not come alive at night and protect the city,” he replied flatly. “And kudos for the pop culture reference, but how do you even know that show? I mean, it aired before you were even born.”
“Dude, we’re the same age.”
He let out a dismissive sound at Scott’s weak retort. “True, but I’m me, and you’re … well, you.”
“Hey, I can be pop culture literate, you know.”
Stiles adjusted the grip he had on the tarts, and quirked a corner of his mouth up teasingly, even though Scott couldn’t see it. “Yes, and Star Wars is your favourite franchise,” he deadpanned. “Kira got Disney Plus, didn’t she?”
There was a brief pause before Scott responded with a meek, “Yes.”
“Knew it. So, what’s up? Things okay back home?” Unlike Stiles, Scott hadn’t had any problems finding a summer job back in Beacon Hills with the local vet. And having known him for so long, Stiles was happy for his best friend, truly – in the veterinary medicine program at UC Davis, job lined up to practice in their home town after graduation – but sometimes, just sometimes, there was that little spike a jealousy at how easy everything had been for him. Stiles, on the other hand … well, he’d never had things fall so neatly into place. Career-wise, his scattered thought processes had had him waffling back and forth between extremes from forensics to philosophy for most of high school, and somehow, he’d ended up at Caltech, one year away from finishing his undergraduate degree in data science and English, of all things.
“Oh, yeah, everything’s good. I was just calling to see if you were still coming up next weekend. You know, for my mom’s birthday and everything.”
Stiles smiled fondly. Melissa McCall had filled in the big mom-sized hole in his life growing up, and she was family. “Of course, I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it for anything. I got the weekend off, and it’ll give me a chance to check in on my dad, and hang out with you and the gang.”
“That’s perfect! Feels like it’s been forever since we’ve hung out. Especially with you deciding to stay down there for the summer.”
Stiles suppressed a sigh. “It’s a money thing, Scotty. We talked about it, remember? The job’s got decent pay, and I’m living rent-free right now because I’m housesitting for a classmate while he’s away for the summer. It all works out.”
Scott remained silent for a moment, but Stiles could easily imagine his pout and sad, puppy eyes. “I know,” he started slowly. “But you could’ve just come back and gotten a summer job here instead, and lived at home. It would’ve been the same thing.”
There were reasons even Stiles couldn’t articulate for his decision to stay near school this year. It wasn’t that he didn’t love going back home. After all, his dad, Scott, and all his childhood memories were there. But … but with the last year of his schooling upon him, he’d all of a sudden felt so aimless, adrift, and each time he thought about the future, that creeping sense of panic would begin to encroach on his insides, squeezing his stomach and clawing at his throat. Logically, he knew he needed to ground himself somehow, find something to hold onto that would propel him forward, and he didn’t think going back to Beacon Hills was the best way to do that. Not that working at a bakery was the answer, sugary perks aside, but it was something.
“I kind of like working at the bakery,” he said instead. It was a flimsy argument, but Scott – sweet, oblivious Scott – bought it.
“Okay, well, in that case, can I ask you a favor? Would you mind picking up a cake from your fancy bakery for Mom’s party next week? Please? I’ll love you forever!”
“First off, Scotty, as my best friend, you are contractually obligated to love me forever, and second, you realize it’s a seven-hour drive to get home, right? You want me to drive a cake for seven hours through a good portion of California in the summer?”
“Aww, c’mon, it’s not that bad, is it? Kira looked up some of the bakery’s photo, and she said they were really cute. I just thought it’d be cool to have one for the party.”
Stiles leaned back against the nearest wall, knowing full well that he wouldn’t deny the request. “Fine. I’ll find a way. Maybe a cooler or something.”
“Thanks, buddy! You’re the best!” Scott’s wide, goofy grin could be heard in his tone.
“You know it,” he returned good-naturedly. “But hey, I’ve got to go. I need to finish up this last order before I clock out for the day.”
Finally realizing this wasn’t the best time for a chat, Scott readily said his goodbyes and hung up. Stiles slid the phone into his pocket, and breathed out slowly. He tilted his head back and rested it tiredly against the wall. He loved Scott. He really did. They’d been partners in crime for as far back as he could remember, brothers to the end, but as they’d gotten older, and as they each forged their own paths, developed different relationships, they fit together a bit differently now. It wasn’t bad or unpleasant or anything. In fact, it was the opposite, but It was still just … different.
“God, they must be scraping the bottom of the barrel if you’re my replacement.”
He straightened at the unfamiliar voice, the meaning of the words not fully registering before he realized that they were meant for him. “E-Excuse me?” He eyed the stranger up and down, taking in the broad shoulders, coiffed blond hair, clean-shaven face, and perfectly symmetrical jawline. The guy looked like all the other prototypical aspiring actors who haunted the L.A. service industry. Sometimes, he wondered if moving to SoCal just exacerbated his inferiority complex in the looks department.
“The agency sent you, right? Didn’t think they’d actually find anyone with the late notice, but I guess even a third-string substitute is better than none.”
The guy’s attitude reminded him of Jackson, his high school nemesis (or bully, but… semantics). “Wha–“
“They must’ve. Client said to meet them in the service hallway, entrance to the lobby. That’s why I told you to come here. Anyways, here’s the file or script or whatever. Sounds like an easy gig. My agent just texted about a last-minute casting call. A speaking role in a Marvel movie, so hell yeah, I’m going.”
Stiles was tearing his gaze away from the small ‘Lobby’ placard on the wall behind him when he felt a slight weight on the box of tarts he was holding. He quickly grabbed the small booklet before it slid off, and stared, wide-eyed, at the rapidly retreating back of the stranger. “Wait, but … I’m not…” His shoulders slumped when the guy was too far away to hear him. “… Who you’re looking for,” he finished.
Crap.
He glanced down at the stack of papers in his hand. The cover page was non-descript, with just a simple title – Looking Glass – centered on it in Courier font. Who printed in Courier font nowadays, by the way? Readjusting the tarts, he quickly flipped through the sheets, and was none the wiser as to what he’d just been given. There was a short description of what Looking Glass was – some type of fashion and lifestyle publication that ‘reflected the diversity of life’ – and a vague list of ‘Do’s and Don’t’s’ that made no sense to Stiles without context. He wasn’t sure what to do with it, to be honest. Mr. I’m-Generically-Good-Looking-and-thus-Entitled-to-be-a-Jerk was long gone, and he had no idea who he was supposed contact to let them know the guy had ducked out. Not for the first time, he cursed his wholesome upbringing and overdeveloped sense of responsibility. Some people would probably just walk away, say it wasn’t their problem, but nope, not him. He and his overbearing conscience had his body rooted to the spot, conflicted as to what to do and where to go now.
“Oh, good, you’re here.”
Stiles startled enough to almost dropped the tarts when a blond bombshell with bright red lipstick and a tight miniskirt slipped through the nearby lobby door. She gave him a long, pointed look, her expression a scary combination of critical assessment and predatory hunger. “I’m Erica, the Hale executive assistant. You’re a little different from the ones the agency usually sends, but in a good way. You’ve got the whole cute geeky hipster thing going for you.” She gave him a suggestive wink that made Stiles what to run away for fear of being eaten alive … in both the sexual and literal sense. “I see you got the information package I sent,” she continued after noticing the booklet in his hands. “Everything should be straightforward then, I assume. I’ve got your outfit, but I think the measurements might be a bit off, but lucky for you, I’ve gotten really good with a needle and thread since I started working for the Hales. I can make a few alterations pretty quickly. Payment will be as we agreed. Two thousand upfront, and the other two thousand after the night is over. Just come with me. We’ll get you fitted, and have you sign the NDA.”
Stiles stood, mouth open, ready to interject somewhere during Erica’s whole spiel – because this was the very person he’d been looking for to fix this whole mix-up – but there had been no natural pause to interrupt. How did she do that? Did she not breath? But then, she’d mentioned payment. Two thousand? Or rather, four thousand? For one evening’s work? That was more than he would’ve made this whole month. He closed his mouth, internally questioning if taking a job that just fell into his lap would be going against his moral code at all. As long as it wasn’t anything illegal, it should be okay … right? He owed it to his meagre bank account to follow this up, or at least, find out what this was all about.
His body answered for him when his legs started following Erica of their own volition into the carpeted lobby. They skirted the mingling crowds, turned down a quiet corridor, and eventually, entered one of the private suites on the main floor. Stiles’ step faltered as he took in the spacious living room and dining area, but Erica didn’t break stride as she headed into what he assumed was the bedroom – and at a remarkable pace too, given the stilettos she had on. Quickly placing the tarts and the booklet onto the dining table, he hurried after her, completely oblivious as to what to expect.
“Here, put this on.” Her command was followed by a garment bag being tossed his way the moment he entered the room, and he flailed in an effort to catch it.
“What is it?”
“Your outfit. The length will probably be good, but the waist might need to be taken in a bit. Lucky for you, I’m good at my job, and can get that done once you put it on.” Erica stood, waiting expectantly, and once the words sunk in, Stiles did the same. It was far from a Mexican stand-off, and normally, Stiles knew when he’d met his match in strong, capable women – case in point, Lydia Martin – but he didn’t know Erica well enough to stripe down in front of her.
The blonde finally relented, making a ‘You’re such a prude’ sound before leaving the room. “Your hat and pocket watch are on the bed,” she said right before she closed the door.
“Pocket… watch?” Puzzled, he looked down on the bed and lo and behold, there was a legitimate burnished gold pocket watch on the bed. Beside that sat a black, satin-lined top hat with… bunny ears? What in the world had he walked into? Part of him wondered if he should maybe come clean about the mix-up, apologize, and get the hell out of Dodge as fast as his jean-clad legs would carry him.
But then, that tiny, Scrooge-like voice inside his head repeated the words ‘four grand’, and he was a goner. What could he say? He was weak. He was just a boy, standing in front of an opportunity, asking it to love him. (And yes, rom-coms were his secret guilty pleasure, sue him.) After a few aborted tries – one of which may or may not have included the zipper getting stuck on the garment bag – he pulled out a really nice three-piece suit. He wasn’t exaggerating. It was really nice, a dark jacket with tails complimented by a shiny red waistcoat, and perfectly pressed pants. There was a white button-up shirt in behind it all that was so soft, he just wanted to curl up and live in it. He let out a low whistle of appreciation. Then, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. Were those tiny, white hearts sewn into the waistcoat?
Huh.
Either way, odd details aside, it was a beautifully crafted outfit. Very Victorian-era inspired, if his many diversions into the bowels of Wikipedia had any say. He would never have the chance to wear something so fine again, so all the more reason for him to try it now. Mind made, he quickly shimmied out of his graphic tee and jeans, and slipped into the suit.
Erica was right. The waist was a little loose, but once the main pieces were on – he had no idea how to tie the ascot-looking thing left on the hanger – he felt like a way cooler version of Monopoly’s Mr. Moneybags. He found the full-length mounted mirror by the closet and admired the cut of the fabric on his body.
“Turn around. I’ll take it in a bit.”
“Holy --!” Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin at Erica’s sudden appearance behind him. “Don’t sneak up on a guy like that! I could’ve killed you with my defensive reflexes alone,” he blabbered in an effort to hide his surprise.
“What, with your uncontrollable flailing and girly scream? Not likely.” Her tone was dry, and expression lofty, but duck’s back, thy name was Stiles! Fortunately for him, he’d become immune to insults to his masculinity. Lydia had trained him well, albeit through overexposure.
“Now, turn and take off the jacket,” she continued, shaking what looked like a sewing kit.
Stiles obeyed, standing as still as he could to let Erica work. Of course, that was to say, his fidgeting body got poked regularly by the needle. At first, it was accidental, because he knew he was shifting his weight back and forth, but after a while, he suspected Erica was just poking him on purpose.
“So…” he started after the fourth or fifth stab, trying to sound casual. “You work for the Hales, you said. Is that who I’m working for tonight?”
Erica made some sort of muffled affirmative sound behind him before she popped into view over his shoulder in the mirror, a couple of pins in her mouth. “Yeah, I’m mainly Laura’s assistant, but I get loaned out to the others. You can say, I’ve been around the Hale block and back.” There was a wicked twinkle in her eyes that just dared him to ask for some elaboration. Stiles wasn’t going to touch that with a ten-foot pole.
“So, Laura’s the one who hired me then?”
“You could say that.” She disappeared from view again just as Stiles felt a tug around his middle, and he fought to urge to suck in his stomach.
“And what exactly does she need me to do?” He’d never heard of the Hales, but his mind was already flipping through an encyclopedia of possibilities detailing what eccentric rich people could hire virile, young men for. And yes, his imagination was healthy. It was a gift and a curse.
“Did you not read the info package I sent?”
Stiles teetered to the balls of his feet and then back to his heels. “Well, that depends. By ‘read’, did you mean ‘skim’, or maybe ‘flip through’?”
A strong hand on his shoulder pushed his feet back down flat on that ground. Rather aggressively too. “Seriously? I thought you were a professional.”
“I am,” he returned without thinking. And it was the truth. He was a professional – a professional student, a professional bakery shop employee, even a really good professional slacker when the occasion arose. “I just didn’t get a chance to carefully read your little guidebook is all.”
“Well, lucky for you, reading isn’t a skill you’ll need for tonight. Just be the cute eye candy that you already are.”
“So, I’m an escort?”
Erica made some amused snorting sound behind him. “Sure, if that’s what you need to get you into the right mind space. But not exactly. Just smile, and be charming. You know, act like the perfect date for the public at large. Why do you think we usually hire actors?”
That was it? Okay, that didn’t sound too bad. He could act. Or, he liked to pretend he could. Surely, learning by diffusion from all the wannabe actors at the coffeeshops and restaurants after hanging around L.A. county for the last three years counted, right?
“Makes sense,” he said instead. Then, something struck him about Erica’s words. “Wait, usually…? As in, this isn’t the first time you’ve hired dates for your boss?”
“More often than you know,” came a muffled reply. There was some more tugging, and what Stiles could’ve sworn was an unnecessary pat on his ass. Then, Erica’s head popped into view again as she moved over to grab the ascot and start tying it around his neck. “But I’m not saying anything else until you sign the NDA on the desk.”
Stiles glanced over to the desk in question, the paper and pen on its surface sitting benignly on its surface. Oh, evil, enticing seductress, calling to him with its alluring siren’s song … and the promise of money.
“Done.” Erica straightened, and made a muted catcall as she took in her handiwork.
“As an enlightened individual, I should probably protest the objectification, but as a self-conscious male in constant need of validation, thank you.” He twisted left and right as he took in his reflection in the mirror. And hot damn, he looked good. The structured cut of the shirt and waistcoat seemed to enhance the trimness of his waist and the broadness of his shoulders, and when Erica tossed him the coat and he slipped it on, he looked downright… proper.
“Well, what you do with your ego is your business. I just need you to sign, and we’re good.”
Stiles thought about debating his decision a bit longer, but really, if he was being honest with himself, he’d come too far already. He was in a pretty swanky suite, with a blonde bombshell who normally wouldn’t look twice at someone like him, in a beautifully tailored suit, being offered four thousand dollars to just spend the night mingling at a party. Could he really walk away now? Before he could further second-guess his actions, he quickly went over to the desk and signed the forms. The moment he did, Erica came up beside him and slid a cheque and a key card up along the desk surface.
“Here’s your pre-payment. I’ll e-transfer you the rest tomorrow,” she explained. “The contact info on the form is correct?”
He nodded, pocketing the offered items and suddenly feeling a little dirty about taking the money. “So, I still have a van in the service alley behind …”
“I’ll get one of the valets to take care of it.” She cut him off readily as she grabbed the agreement, and headed toward the door. “You can use the suite to store your stuff. Suit’s yours to keep. There are shoes in the closet. Find a size that works. Just be in the lobby in fifteen minutes. Oh, and keys?”
Obediently, Stiles fished his keys out from his discarded jean pocket and tossed them over. “So who – ?“
He stopped short when he realized Erica had ignored him and left the room. He stood frozen for a moment, a rare occurrence, waiting for his brain to catch up with the sequence of events from the last few minutes. And when he heard the distance click of the exterior door closing, he finally started moving. He checked the closet first, and slipped on a pair of nice patent leather shoes that didn’t pinch too badly. Next, he clipped the pocket watch to his waistcoat – and with minimal finger-pinching, thank you very much – before he adjusted the hat atop his head. The instant he did, he had an epiphany: the suit, the watch, the ears … he was the White Rabbit! The one from Alice in Wonderland. It made sense now, with the party décor and the company name. It was fun, if a bit kitschy.
Which reminded him … the tarts! They needed to be on the table in the ballroom like… yesterday! He quickly dug out his phone from his other jean pocket, and sent a message off to Molly that he’d be dropping the van off after she closed. He’d done it once before last week when a delivery took longer than anticipated, and she didn’t seem to mind. That done, he rushed back to the dining area where he’d left the box, and stopped abruptly when he realized there was a stranger just standing there.
And holy hotcake on a hotplate, it was one good looking stranger. The man was tall, probably just as tall as Stiles, if not just slightly more, and dressed similarly in a Victorian-style suit. But even so, Stiles could tell the guy was way better built, his crisp white shirt and dark waistcoat stretching across a broad shoulders and flat stomach. And what was even more endearing was how the little details to his costume – the ruby-colored, heart-shaped eye-patch sitting against his forehead and the tiny red hearts on his ascot that seemed to eerily match Stiles’s waistcoat – juxtaposed his otherwise dark and ruggedly handsome appearance. Like that perfect stubble, and that chiseled jawline, which was, at that very moment …
“Oh my God, you heathen!” Stiles rushed over and quickly closed the tart box. He drew the line at returning the tart the stranger was already bringing to his mouth back into the box because … eww. “Did anyone ever teach you to not steal food that wasn’t yours!”
He pulled the box away, ready to protect the other innocent pastries from the tart thief with his body if need be. Stunned hazel eyes stared at him as if he’d grown two heads, and Stiles thought he deserved a medal for only being moderately distracted by all those changing shades of green, blue, and brown.
“They were just sitting there. They’re fair game.”
As far as arguments went, it was a pretty flimsy one. “Not when the lid is closed!” he returned. He would have to count the one tart as a loss, and hope no one noticed. Still glaring accusingly at the thief, he grabbed the purchase order from where he’d left it on the table, and backed out of the room like the guy was going to attack if he left his line of sight. Not that that was a likely scenario, but Stiles wanted an excuse to be able to stare at that bit of glowering eye candy just a little longer. He didn’t know who the stranger was, but he was allowed to look, wasn’t he?
Once in the hallway, he pivoted and hurried toward the ballroom. Despite one wrong turn, for which he was quite proud of himself because it could’ve been so much worse given he hadn’t been paying attention when he’d been going the other way with Erica, he retraced his steps and managed to sneak into the ballroom again. Guests had started milling about, but lucky for him, he and his fancy attire blended in nicely with the themed party. He got the last of the bakery order set up and signed off by one of the organizer’s assistants without any issues.
Job done, he breathed a sigh of relief as he made his way out into the lobby as Erica had instructed. It was only after he’d stood there for several minute that he realized he didn’t know who he was waiting for. Erica has mentioned that her boss – Laura? – had hired him, but he had no idea what she looked like, what she would be wearing, or even, how old she was. Maybe she was an eccentric elderly lady who just like to be escorted by young men to these types of events. That would be interesting. He’d always wondered what being a boy toy would feel like. Not that he fantasized about it or anything, but the concept was always amusing to read about.
“There was cognac in those tarts.”
Stiles tensed at the voice, and if his heart rate picked up, it was totally involuntary, because there he was again – that well-dressed Neanderthal who’d pilfered his tarts. Never mind the fact that the heart-shaped eye patch should’ve made him look comical instead of roguishly handsome, the man was an interloper who threw off his equilibrium, and Stiles needed whatever equilibrium he could get in uncertain situations like these. “What the – ? Are you stalking the tarts now? I mean, I can’t stop you from taking them since it looks like you’re a party guest, but leave some for other people.”
An expressive eyebrow arched, as if punctuating the ridiculousness of the accusation. “No, I am not stalking the tarts.”
“Then why are you talking to me? Wait, are you stalking me?” Because that would be even more ridiculous. Really, look at the guy, and then look at him. No way he’d ever catch the interest of someone in this man’s league. No way, unless …
“No, but you are my date.”
Shit.