“Are you okay?” He sounded a little concerned, like he was wondering if I had sustained yet another head injury. I wanted to slit my wrists.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t get a lot of sleep.” I walked over to the sofa and sat down. “I shared my bed last night.” I leapt back up to my feet. “With a Chihuahua!”

He gave me a surprised look, and suddenly, I was overcome with amusement at how ridiculous I sounded. I stopped talking and bit my lip, trying not to laugh. It didn’t work. I cracked up.

“What?” he asked. He was smiling, but now he was looking really confused and maybe a little afraid.

“I’m sorry… it’s just that… I’m usually so much cooler than this.” I choked out, holding my stomach. “I’ve never been so fucking awkward in my life.” I was laughing so hard I could barely breathe, but his reply was what actually took my breath away.

“First of all, never apologize for laughing. You’re even more beautiful when you laugh. Secondly, I’m kind of nervous myself.”

I stopped laughing and dry swallowed. Then, it was like there was something pulling us together, like we were magnetic. We began to move toward each other in a barely perceptible way, until the buzzer rang. The car had arrived. Damn.

When we got to the parking garage, Louis, the guy who usually drove me to these events was waiting. He worked for my father and he was trained in security. He held the door for us and Mark helped me into the back seat.

It was a short ride, and we were approaching the museum within minutes. I reached into my clutch bag and pulled out a mint, offering Mark one, and popping another into my mouth. After all, there was nothing more embarrassing than getting caught with bad breath. Remember that I said that, by the way.

“So, still up for the limo sex?” Mark joked.

I laughed in surprise, and accidentally sucked the mint into my throat, getting it lodged there. I started choking and making a gurgling sound, and Louis, who was also trained in CPR, immediately crossed three lanes of traffic, and illegally parked on a median in the middle of the Ben Franklin Parkway.

Mark was already attempting to apply the Heimlich maneuver, but Louis was having none of it. It was his job to save the senator’s daughter from the killer Altoid, and no one would stop him. He dove out of the driver’s seat, flew around to the back, and hauled me out of the car. Then he proceeded to stand behind me and squeeze my ribs so hard, that my feet left the ground.

Mark was out of the car in an instant. Unfortunately, the instant, in question, was the one where the mint became dislodged and flew out of my mouth, hitting him square in the eye like a torpedo. He cried out in pain and covered his face, staggering forward. Have I mentioned we were in the middle of the Ben Franklin Parkway? Horns blasted, and Louis, who was also trained to take a bullet if necessary, threw himself into traffic, grabbed Mark and tossed him onto the median, covering him with his own body.

All of this happened within seconds, but luckily, we were close enough to the museum that the waiting photographers, who had zoom lenses, were able to capture all of it for posterity. And the tabloids. And my brother.

Mark and I were in great shape considering that I had nearly choked, and probably had a few cracked ribs, and he had been thrown to the pavement and blinded in one eye. In an effort to reclaim some semblance of dignity, we got back into the car, and Louis proceeded to drive us to the museum as if nothing had happened. I was going to have to speak to my father about giving Louis a raise.

We arrived at the museum and entered the line of cars. A few minutes later, Mark was helping me out and we were being escorted off to an area where journalists and photographers were waiting.

“Ms. Pierce, are you injured?… Ms. Pierce, what was going on out there?… Ms. Pierce, is your driver a member of the Secret Service?…” And then…

“Who is this handsome man escorting you, Beth?” That one stopped me in my tracks. I turned and saw a female reporter, with a spray tan in a shade of Oompa Loompa orange, and hair the color of a brass doorknob, giving Mark a flirtatious look. Fucking tabloid journalist.

“This is Mark Patterson, a friend and colleague,” I muttered and smiled weakly.

“So Mark, are you and Beth an item?” asked the guy standing next to the Oompa. He had black hair, slicked down with more oil than in Venezuela, and he was wearing more bling than in the Tower of London. He also had a camera and a smarmy smile. Fucking paparazzo.

“Like she said, we’re friends and colleagues. I couldn’t let such a lovely lady attend a party alone. Nobody would pay attention to the celebrities,” Mark said suavely and the journalists all gave appreciative chuckles.

Wow. This man had just been wounded by a missile, plucked from traffic and crushed beneath a six foot five inch, two hundred and eighty pound chauffer. He had abrasions on his palms and his eye was starting to swell. Yet there he was, cracking jokes, grace under pressure. Fucking amazing.

We joined the reception, and as soon as we were inside, a passing waiter offered us champagne flutes. If ever there was a moment for alcohol this was it. I looked around and took everything in. There were actors dressed like old movie stars, mingling with the crowd. I saw Clark Gable and Marilyn Monroe right away. And there was Joan Crawford. Sorry, Bruce.

A steady stream of people approached us, making their circuit around the room. We spent time talking to representatives of non-profit organizations, local business owners and even a federal judge. I watched Mark charm them all like nothing had happened. He told them about our work and the cases we had won and I could hear how passionately he believed in what he did.