I turned my head and saw a tall man with silver hair at his temples and dark, quiet eyes. He adjusted the silver cuff of his shirt with his free hand, his movements deliberate and calm.
“I am so sorry,” I whispered, my shoulder muscles tightening as I tried to pull away.
“There is nothing to apologize for,” he said, keeping his hand gently on my sleeve. “You have been carrying that tray for two hours.”
The banquet captain, a sharp-faced man named Miller, hurried over with his tablet held against his chest.
“Is there a problem here, Mr. Wade?” Miller asked, his eyes scanning my uniform for stains.
“The young lady is exhausted,” Russell said, his voice dropping to a low, commanding register. “Find someone else to carry the champagne, and let her sit down in the alcove.”
Miller nodded quickly, reaching out to take the heavy tray from my hands.
“Right away, sir,” Miller said.
Russell guided me toward a small recessed area near the service doors, where two metal folding chairs sat in the shadow of a velvet curtain.
I sank into the chair, the sudden relief in my back so sharp it made me close my eyes for a second.
“Thank you,” I said, looking up at him as he remained standing. “I did not mean to cause a scene.”
“You did not cause a scene,” Russell said.
He sat down on the second chair, his long legs folded under the small frame. He did not look at the crowd in the ballroom; instead, his eyes stayed on my face.
“How long have you been on your feet today?” he asked.
“Since six this morning,” I said, tucking my hands into my apron pockets so he would not see them shaking. “I had a shift at the diner on Eighth Street before this.”
