Any other night, I might have entertained Ivy's interest. But now, no matter how much I tried to focus, my eyes kept finding Zoe and the apparent matchmaking happening at the other end of the table.
Like some damn magnet. 
Why did it bother me? She wasn't why I was here. I had to stay focused.
Ivy held my arm suddenly, drawing my attention away. 
"Zeus, sweetie," she murmured, her red nails caressing my sleeve. "You seem tense. Everything okay?"
"Yeah, I'm good." I forced a smile to hide my annoyance.
She bent closer and whispered, "I'm hoping we can talk more tonight. How about after dinner?"
My eyebrows rose. I knew what she was suggesting.
Ivy Lecter was beautiful, wealthy, influential. But she wasn't someone I'd pursue a relationship with.
I gave her a tight-lipped smile. "Not tonight." 
Her eyes widened, then laughed softly. "No worries, it's fine. Another time, then. You seem so...distracted."
I didn't answer. Because she was right.
Oliver whispered something to Zoe. She laughed—soft, amused, comfortable.
My grip tightened around my butter knife.
Suddenly, this dinner seemed a lot longer than I wanted it to be.
Zoe
"Quite an entrance," a deep voice murmured beside me as I settled into my seat.
I turned, meeting the amused expression of the man sitting on my left side. Blue eyes, rich brown hair, strong jawline—attractive. He reminded me of the young Chris Pine from The Princess Diaries.
"I didn't mean to make a dramatic entrance," I said softly.
"You did," he said, grinning. Then, after a second, he cocked his head and studied me. Too closely.
I stiffened. "What?"
"You really overslept," he said, grinning. "You have... a little evidence."
My brows furrowed. "Evidence?"
He pointed at my cheek. "Right there, a faint pillow crease."
I touched my face—and felt the crease running down my cheek. 
Oh, no.
My cheeks burned with shame and I tried to smooth my skin. How come I didn't notice it earlier?
The man chuckled, his voice gentle and teasing. "Relax, it's cute."
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't help myself from smiling.
He extended a hand. "By the way, I'm Oliver Edwards. Wine producer. Based in England."
I shook his hand, feeling the warmth of his palm. "Zoe Stavrakos. Not a wine producer. Not based in England."
Oliver chuckled. "Pity. But tell me you like wine."
"I enjoy drinking wine," I admitted, and his grin went wider.
John made a silent signal, and the servers—dressed in crisp white uniforms—moved fast, placing dishes in front of each guest. 
I straightened in my chair as the first course was served—a Scottish smoked salmon, thinly sliced and artfully arranged. 
Looking up from the plate, my gaze swept across the long, elegantly set table, taking in the faces of the guests. 
And then they landed on Zeus.