Free Make You Blush by Macy Beckett

typical Mom fashion, she kept her panic level dialed to
Impending Apocalypse
. “Because there’s a case of meningitis at the university.”
    “I graduated, Mom.” Joy dabbed at her nose. “Remember? You were there.”
    “What’s your temperature?”
    “I’m not sick.” Not physically, anyway. Heartsickness carried its fair share of horrible symptoms, but it wouldn’t get her a day off from work. Or a free pass from fund-raiser gala. “I’m just upset.”
    Apparently, Mom was okay with that. “Then hurry up and get yourself together. Charles Pennington is already asking for you.”
    “Who?”
    “You know,” Mom said. “That nice young man you dated a few months ago.”
    “Oh.” She meant Orville Redenbacher. Joy grimaced and glanced at her palm, making a mental note to pack hand sanitizer in her purse. “Thanks for the warning.”
    •   •   •
    Two hours later, Orville—er, Charles—waved at her from the other side of the ballroom. He came bounding toward her with the enthusiasm of a puppy about to wet itself, and when he scrubbed a fist beneath his nose, Joy stretched out her arms to him, opting for a hug instead of a handshake.
    That was her first mistake of the evening.
    She kept her end of the embrace professional, but Charles didn’t. He planted a wet kiss at her jawline while his hands slid dangerously close to ass territory. Joy stiffened before pushing away. Charles didn’t strike her as the type to cop a feel.
    “Great to see you again,” she lied while backing up a pace.
    “You, too.” His gaze swept her from head to toe with the wide, unfocused eyes of a man who couldn’t hold his liquor. Clearly, he’d taken full advantage of the open bar, which explained a few things. “You look
gooooor
-geous.”
    Only a drunkard would think so. All the makeup in Joy’s arsenal couldn’t conceal the puffiness beneath her eyes, and thanks to a week of nonstop pizza consumption, her dress zipper was begging for mercy. “Thanks. You’re too sweet.”
    “Wanna dance?”
    Caught off guard, Joy peered around the room at the rows of tables decked out in white linen and bone china. At a thousand dollars per plate, Daddy had packed in as many place settings as logistically possible, and every pocket of space was occupied by laughing partygoers. “I don’t see a dance floor.”
    Charles slipped an arm around her waist and jerked her forward until she landed against his chest with an
oof
! “Who needs a dance floor?”
    Joy turned her face aside to dodge another kiss, but that didn’t stop the stench of sour whisky from filling her nostrils. Sweet Jesus, what was up with this guy?
    Charles crushed their hips together and showed her exactly what was
up
.
    “Oh, God!” In a panic, she pushed back hard enough to detangle herself. Unfortunately, it was also hard enough to send Charles stumbling into a passing cocktail waitress. The girl lost her footing, and they went down in a clumsy spiral, along with the two dozen glasses of champagne on her tray.
    The sound of breaking glass silenced the room and drew hundreds of gazes to Joy and the two soaking-wet victims at her feet. Cringing, she tiptoed through the glass and helped the waitress stand, but when she offered her hand to Charles, he waved her off.
    “What’s your problem?” he demanded, his bow tie limp and crooked like an overcooked bit of pasta. “All I wanted was a dance!”
    Joy’s face heated, but with anger, not embarrassment. “Go home, Orville,” she said. “You’re drunk.”
    A large hand appeared at Joy’s elbow, and she turned to find her father bent over Charles. “So sorry,” Daddy said. “Please excuse us for a moment.” His unnaturally white teeth shone beneath a tight smile as he tugged Joy toward the lobby. Once they were out of earshot, he lit into her with a whisper-yell. “What were you thinking?”
    “It was an accident,” Joy said. “I was just trying to get him off me.”
    “Get him
off you
?”