Gift-Wrapped Mistakes

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes in heels. But handing a mystery box to a cop at a charity gala might just take the canapé.”

As we stepped into the function room, a wave of warmth washed over us—thick and immediate—dispelling the clinical cool of the lobby in an instant. The lighting dipped into a palette of golds and low ambers, casting everything in an exaggerated softness that bordered on theatrical. Tables glimmered under centrepieces designed to impress, and chandeliers hung like inverted galaxies. It was all curated opulence, polished within an inch of its soul.

Despite myself, I leaned a fraction closer to Jarod, drawn by the strange magnetism of proximity and nerves. “Except I don’t actually know what Charlie looks like,” I murmured, the confession barely more than a breath, the words pressed between us like a secret I hadn’t meant to share.

The admission felt dangerous. Stupid, even. A moment of rawness that caught me unawares, like tripping over your own feet in front of someone who remembers when you used to dance.

And just like that, the realisation landed: He is making me sloppy.

The thought struck with a clean, cold finality—like ice water poured down the back of the neck. I straightened subtly, creating a sliver of distance between us, clawing back the illusion of control. This wasn’t the time to be swayed by shared history or the comfort of another person’s orbit. Not when the mission—whatever this was—depended on sharp edges and clean exits.

Or maybe I’ve simply lost my skills.

The possibility lingered, unwelcome. Had I grown dull in my retreat from the world? Had grief softened me, made me slow?

Jarod turned to glance at me, catching the edge of my unease. His brow furrowed slightly—confused, maybe curious—but his attention didn’t linger. Something across the room had drawn his gaze, luring him like a fish to flash.

And then, with a surge of certainty, his face lit up.

“Charlie!” he called out, voice clear and far too loud for my liking.

The name cracked through the ambient hum. My pulse surged—fast, hot, erratic—as if my body couldn’t decide whether to take flight or melt into the floorboards.

I watched helplessly as his arm lifted in greeting, as the moment I’d been spiralling toward finally unfurled without ceremony. No preparation. No warning. Just impact.

Inside me, something clashed: fear and relief, locked in a chaotic waltz. The instinct to pull Jarod back flared bright and urgent. To stop him. To rewind the moment and reclaim control. It was visceral—an old reflex, forged in rooms where the wrong step cost more than awkward conversation.

But alongside it, beneath it, there was the other thing. The quieter urge. The one that had brought me here in the first place.

This was the moment I’d been both dreading and longing for. The package still tucked against my side like a second heartbeat. A mission, dressed as a favour. And with it—finally—a way out. If I could just deliver it and vanish, I might yet escape this night with a scrap of dignity and something close to purpose.

So I stood still, breath shallow, watching fate crest the hill in polished shoes and tailored lapels.

"Charlie. Good to see you again," Jarod greeted, his voice adopting a warmth that sliced through the well-tailored sterility of the function room like a welcome draught of air. The tone was effortless—polished, practised. There was something enviably fluid in the way he detached himself from my side, all grace and confidence, as if we’d never been linked at all. He moved towards Charlie with the unspoken ease of familiarity, extending his hand in a firm, businesslike arc that was part formality, part old friend’s embrace.

"It's been a while," Charlie replied, mirroring the tone. There was a touch of texture in his voice—weathered but not unfriendly. "Glad you could come along."

"Thank you," Jarod said, tone smooth as ever. His manners were like his suits: classic, effective, and impossible to fault.

Then came the pivot.

"Charlie, I'd like to introduce you to Ms Beatrix Cramer," he said, turning towards me with the flourish of a man announcing the arrival of a rare artefact. The way he said it—Ms Cramer—was both gallant and damning. It left no room for retreat.

All eyes shifted to me.

"Nice to meet you, Ms Cramer," Charlie offered, his hand extending with the kind of firm diplomacy one might use when brokering a fragile treaty. His gesture was polite, assured—a bridge offered across the chasm of our unfamiliarity.

I moved to accept it, but the box. Of course, the damned box.

It had begun to tilt, listing treacherously in the crook of my arm as I tried to juggle it alongside my purse and the fading remnants of composure. The motion was subtle, but the panic it stirred wasn’t. I felt the beginnings of a loss of control—an unravelling not unlike a snag in silk: small, silent, but dangerous if left unchecked.

My attempt to correct it only made things worse. The box pitched slightly, wobbling like a drunk on stilettos. Typical, I thought bitterly, to fall apart at the one moment that requires poise.

And then—without fuss or fanfare—Jarod’s hand was there. Quick. Discreet. His fingers closed around the edge of the box with a steadiness that defused the moment before it could explode into embarrassment.

I glanced at him, offered the briefest of smiles—tight, appreciative. Not quite gratitude, but something in its orbit. A silent acknowledgment: Fine. You’re useful. This once.

With the box safely transferred into his care, my hands were momentarily my own again. I reached out to meet Charlie’s, completing the social ritual with the kind of composure that bordered on theatrical.

Our hands met—his grip firm, mine just shy of rigid. It wasn’t just a handshake. It was a moment balanced on the edge of everything: intention, secrecy, obligation. A formal exchange in a room full of performances. But this one, somehow, mattered.

"You've got an incredible set-up down here," I remarked, allowing my gaze to drift across the room like a reluctant guest scanning for exits. The space unfurled before us—rows of elegantly dressed tables stretching beneath a soft haze of candlelight, each one perfectly aligned like soldiers in a very polite, very expensive army. The white linens seemed to shimmer faintly, catching the amber glow and turning it into something almost ethereal. Each table was adorned with neat floral arrangements—blue and white, low and considered. Nothing garish. Nothing desperate to be noticed. It was… tasteful. Almost to the point of suspicion.

Charlie's laugh cut through my musings—low, full-bodied, and entirely unselfconscious. The kind of laugh you couldn’t fake if you tried.

"I can't say I can take the credit for any of that," he said, brushing the compliment away with a humility that felt unforced. "But yes," he added, a glint of genuine pride threading through his tone, "Mr Bedding and his crew have done a spectacular job."

It was the kind of answer that could have been scripted—deferential, polished—but something in the way he said it made me believe he meant it. He didn’t crave ownership; he just enjoyed being part of something well-executed.

Despite myself, I felt my guard soften. A smile cracked through the armoured façade I’d been holding since stepping out of the car. Small. Controlled. But real.

Perhaps I could allow myself to enjoy tonight after all. Even if just a sliver. Even if only in the quiet appreciation of a room done right. A flicker of optimism stirred somewhere inside me, faint but unmistakable, threading through the haze of apprehension that hadn’t yet left my chest.

"I must say, Ms Cramer," Charlie continued, his attention now squarely on me, his eyes sweeping with a hint of appraisal that hovered just this side of complimentary. "That is a stunning black dress you have on. I'm sure Sandra would love to see it."

Before I could formulate a response, Jarod leaned in slightly, his voice brushing the shell of my ear in a whisper. "His wife."

The interjection landed like a guidepost in unfamiliar terrain—quiet, precise, and oddly considerate. I barely turned my head, but registered the flicker of a thank-you in the twitch of my lip.

"I’ll let her know when she’s done gossiping," Charlie added with a softer chuckle, the kind that hinted at fondness rather than annoyance. On the surface, it was a throwaway line—an inside joke shared with practiced ease—but beneath it ran the quiet hum of long-standing dynamics, the kind that exist in marriages built on history, not just affection.

The moment hung there—a subtle reminder of the social choreography unfolding all around us. Every compliment, every sideways glance, every breath of humour carried meaning. Alliances. Hierarchies. Subtext.

And I was dancing right in the middle of it.

"Oh, this is for you," Jarod's voice cut through the ambient murmur, crisp and perfectly timed. With the flourish of someone used to owning attention, he extended the small, brown package towards Charlie. "It's a gift from Beatrix," he added, his tone laced with a performative gravity that made the handover feel like the ceremonial passing of a relic rather than a simple offering.

I shot him a look, but he was already watching Charlie, his expression caught between mock solemnity and something more mischievous. Typical. Always making the simple seem theatrical. Always turning my carefully measured gestures into something grander than intended.

"A gift?" Charlie echoed, surprise lifting his eyebrows as he accepted it. His voice carried just enough volume to be heard over the room's din, drawing the attention of a few nearby guests. Wonderful. Now it was public.

Still, the curiosity that flickered across his face was genuine, unguarded even. There was a boyish delight in it, the kind of reaction you rarely see once people become used to receiving things in exchange for favours.

"It is your charity event. I thought it might be the charitable thing to do," I said, my voice finding the same middle-ground I’d trained it to—half sincere, half flippant. I even managed a polite tilt of the head, though I could already feel the flush rising at the back of my neck.

Jarod smirked. Not overtly. Just enough to sting. The corner of his mouth twitched in that maddening way that suggested he was deeply entertained by my attempt at decorum. His disbelief hovered unspoken, like a critic waiting in the wings.

But I didn’t look at him.

My eyes stayed fixed on Charlie, watching—measuring—his reaction. That was the point of this, after all. Not the spectacle. The delivery. The hand-off.

"Thank you," Charlie said, and this time there was no trace of amusement. Just warmth. A simplicity in his tone that undercut the layers of social expectation crowding the room. His smile was soft-edged and uncalculated, and for the briefest moment, the knot in my stomach slackened.

"If you’ll excuse me," he continued, lifting the box slightly, "I’ll just go and pop this over at my table. Save me carrying it around."

Practical. Polite. A perfect excuse to disengage. I could’ve hugged him.

"Of course," I said, the response automatic, scripted. But then, before my brain could intervene, the words slipped out: "It was nice to finally meet you."

Regret hit immediately. The line sounded too formal, too final—like the end of a meeting that had only just begun. The kind of thing you said when you didn’t plan on crossing paths again. Too neat. Too complete. And entirely not what I’d meant.

Charlie gave a small nod—awkward, perhaps, or maybe just polite. A mutual understanding passed silently between us: the moment hadn’t quite landed, but neither of us would call attention to it.

He turned to leave, weaving back through the ever-swelling tide of guests, but just before he vanished, he paused. Pivoted.

"Thank you again, Ms Cramer," he called over his shoulder, lifting the box slightly as if to remind me—yes, he’d noticed. Yes, it had mattered.

My reply was a vague wave, the kind a child gives when they're not sure whether to say goodbye or hide behind the curtain. It felt flimsy. Inadequate. But I let it stand.

As Charlie disappeared into the fold of the crowd, I released a long, quiet sigh, the kind that deflates the lungs and spirit in one.

The box was gone. The handover complete.

And with it, some of the weight pressing against my ribcage began to lift—if only slightly.

"Well, that was a bit—" Jarod’s voice hovered in the air like an unfinished sketch, inviting me to colour it in with something suitably mortifying.

"Stalkerish?" I offered, the word tumbling out before I had time to dress it in irony. It dangled between us like a lead balloon, too accurate to be funny.

He inhaled, the sound measured and deliberate, as though sorting through mental flashcards for the least offensive phrasing. “I was going to say clumsy, but yeah, stalkerish will do nicely,” he conceded, his mouth twitching at the corners in what was presumably meant to be a reassuring grin.

It wasn’t.

Whatever faint humour he’d intended had the opposite effect. My stomach twisted. The knot that had been slowly forming since I entered this building now cinched tighter, like a drawstring yanked by an unseen hand.

"Shit," I breathed, the word slipping through clenched teeth like steam from a boiling kettle. A single syllable to encapsulate the mess, the mounting complications, and the disturbing realisation that I'd just handed a package to someone who might actually matter.

"Don’t worry about it. I’m sure the Sergeant didn’t think anything of it,” Jarod said, the words landing with all the finesse of a cinderblock on a piano. He might have meant them as comfort, but my skin went cold.

“Sergeant?” The word scraped out of me, brittle and breathless. I stopped walking. My heart didn’t—it bolted like a startled deer.

“Yeah. Sergeant Charlie Claiborne, Hobart’s most decorated officer,” Jarod replied, grin now fully formed, like he was delivering a punchline. His tone was light, bordering on smug—as though the revelation should impress me.

It didn’t. It detonated inside my chest.

I stared blankly ahead, as if by sheer will I could rewind the evening, peel back the layers of my mistake and reassemble them into something less catastrophic. But there it was—irrevocable. Charlie Claiborne. Sergeant Charlie Claiborne.

The package. His name. Leigh.

What the hell was Leigh thinking?

The question screamed silently through my mind, panic prickling beneath the surface of my skin like cold sweat yet to form. Was this some twisted test? A setup? Or just another example of Leigh hurling me into a situation with partial information and full consequences?

My internal monologue fractured into chaos. Every instinct I possessed screamed the same thing: It’s time to enact my exit strategy. Now.

I could already see the path—duck into the hallway, fake a phone call, vanish into the night like a well-dressed spectre. But just as I began constructing my alibi, Jarod’s voice cut across my thoughts again.

“Come on,” he said, his hand brushing against my arm—light but firm, steering me gently, almost protectively. His touch wasn’t unwelcome, but it jarred against my spiralling mind. It grounded me. Trapped me.

"Let's go find our seats."

I grimaced, the motion tight across my face. My body, traitorous as ever, obeyed—feet moving not with conviction but with the resigned shuffle of someone heading towards a very polite guillotine. The velvet sort, with linen napkins and complimentary wine.

Each step was a concession. A reluctant truce with the night I’d hoped to outsmart.

And as we wove our way back into the curated calm of the function room, one thing was certain: this evening had already stretched far beyond anything I’d prepared for.

And it wasn’t even close to over.