Billionaires in New York Boxed Set: Billionaires in the City Books 1-3 by Laura Burton (learn to read books .TXT) 📕

“Let me do this for you, before I go,” Thatcher said, taking her hand. Holly bit back the tears.

“I’ll be fine. It’s getting late and I need to get ready for tonight.” She pulled her hand back and cradled it to her chest. “See you tonight.”

Thatcher’s sympathetic stare followed Holly as she walked away.

Chapter Three

“So, Thatcher’s moving to Paris? For how long? Surely, he’s coming back. Right?” Josie fired questions at Holly so fast, Holly didn’t have time to answer. They hurried along the sterile corridor and Holly tried to imagine the acid rising to her throat as they entered the busy kitchen.

A crowd of servers milled around wearing identical black uniforms.

“Estelle wants the drinks flowing. I do not want to see any of you walking around with empty trays. Don’t forget; keep smiling, do not talk to anyone and keep moving. Questions?” The caterer didn’t wait for any before he barked at them to take a tray and go. The servers lined up, taking turns to grab a tray and leave the kitchen. Meanwhile a whole crowd of chefs dashed around making the entrées.

“We’ll talk about it afterwards,” Holly said to Josie as they stepped up to grab their tray.

“Hey you two. Cut it out. I’m not paying you to gossip.”

Holly carried her tray of drinks and followed Josie out of the kitchen. Each step felt like it would be her last as she put every ounce of focus into keeping the drinks from spilling. How she was supposed to smile and look composed, was anyone’s guess.

A string quartet performed on stage as the entire hall was flooded with people dressed in designer clothes.

In fact, some of the designers of said clothes were there, Holly noticed. She wondered what it must be like to attend an event and see people wearing clothes that she had designed.

Holly did not venture too far into the mass of guests; she hovered around the small groups standing close to the kitchen doors instead.

A plume of expensive perfume flooded her nostrils as she held the tray out for a group of women to take a drink. Within seconds the tray was empty and Holly had not even received a single thank you. In fact, the ladies continued to exchange pleasantries, oblivious to Holly.

It was no surprise. She had worked at events like this before. The servers wore black to look invisible. She was not there to stand out. And yet, she longed to appear in a Vera Wang, all eyes on her and the hall silent, with the occasional gasp. Whispers of ‘Who is that woman?’ would fly across the room and Thatcher would proudly tell everyone that Holly was his best friend.

Thatcher stood far off; his back turned. Holly resisted the urge to walk over as her eyes scanned the room, looking for the person who could catapult her career forward; Estelle.

No one ever mentioned Estelle’s last name. When you’re that famous, a second name seems superfluous.

Estelle was dazzling. She wore a tightly fitted purple gown that ruffled at the shoulder. She had narrow features, a painfully small waist, and expressive eyes. She stood poised and powerful, ever primed for hidden paparazzi to catch her best angle.

“What are you doing? Get back in the kitchen and fill up your tray, or so help me, I’ll kick you out.”

Holly jumped at the angry whisper. The caterer was at her side, staring at her so intensely, it looked like her eyes were going to pop out.

“Yes, ma’am.” Holly bobbed her head and marched into the kitchen, not daring to look back.

Working at a mixer was far less glamorous than it looked. Holly was grateful she had opted for flat shoes––even if they did look a bit manly. She stumbled more than a few times. Holly was the clumsiest model in New York. Maybe even the world, she thought. Most of her work was done in a studio, and she never took on catwalk jobs. Just the idea of wearing high stilettos and marching up and down a stage in front of people had her chewing her lip.

Maybe Thatcher was right. She was comfortable in a studio with him and his team. If Holly wanted to work with more photographers, she’d have to put herself out there and risk public humiliation. Was that what was holding her back? But if Thatcher moved to Paris, Holly would have no other choice. She’d have to sign up to an agency and fight off other models for every gig or give up and get a desk job.

Holly absent-mindedly loaded up her tray with tall stem glasses filled with champagne. The task became monotonous and Holly’s bottom lip stung from the hour she had spent chewing on it. The image of Martina drenched in milk chocolate was ever present on her mind as she struggled to focus on delivering drinks to fancy guests.

The night was drawing on, and Holly wondered how much longer she’d have to yo-yo from the kitchen to the hall. The caterer glided around like a bad smell, always hovering close by, her beady eyes on the servers. As if daring them to slow down.

Holly’s shoulders ached; having spent the whole afternoon tensed up and posing for the camera, and now constantly on the move, carrying empty glasses back to the kitchen and returning with a heavy tray of fresh drinks. Surely, they would get a break soon.

The second hour passed even slower than the first. And by the time the third hour came along, every muscle in her body burned.

“How much longer?” she hissed at Josie as they crossed paths. Josie’s fake smile remained in place, but the slight lift of her shoulders said it all.

The door swung open and as Holly walked through, she craned her neck to scowl at Josie.

Josie was a machine. She could do this all night without breaking a sweat. Holly on the other hand, was seeing