few flaws in this brilliant scheme of mine. I scratch my jaw for a moment, thinking it over until I find a way to make it more plausible.
“But it’s not unusual for us to wine and dine potential clients though. We’re always offering people suites at sporting events, Broadway show tickets, stuff like that. You happen to be into racing. Maybe all anyone needs to think is that I’m sweetening up a client who likes fast cars with an F1 weekend,” I muse.
“A client who’s also naked in your bed at night. And who won’t knee you in the crotch when you try to lift up my dress after this fancy party,” she deadpans.
A slow grin spreads across my face. It’s good to know that she’s with me on the after-hours portion of this weekend. Especially the part where she’s in my bed at night. Even though I’m not big on babbling about my renovation projects, it makes me fucking giddy to think about showing her my home. It was the first grown-up project I took on myself, without any influence from my family or concern for what would make a good investment. Instead, I made it all about preserving what once was and resisting the urge to fix what seems haphazard at first glance—which wasn’t easy, because my house is a study in mashups.
Built in 1904, it’s primarily a Southern plantation-style design but with a dash of New Orleans row house thrown in. I think that combo makes it feel quirky instead of garish, even when it shouldn’t. There are two-story wraparound porches held up by stout, round wood columns and lined with traditional spindle railings, and fresh white paint covers most of the house except for the black-painted trim. Inside, we restored the original plaster walls and hickory floor, then applied period-appropriate finishes, from the fireplace surrounds to the glass chandeliers. The only exception to that rule is in the kitchen, where we went all out with Gaggenau appliances, Carrara marble countertops and every other upgrade imaginable. It’s my favorite place in the world and the one thing in my life I’ve always felt one hundred percent proud of.
And God help me, but right now all I can think about is how I want Sage to love every square inch of it as much as I do.
I force myself to keep any evidence of that from showing up in my expression though. I offer Sage an easy smile. “No one needs to know about that. Whatever happens in my bed or in the hotel after the gala is our business.”
Sage gnaws on her lower lip and looks away. “What about Dad and Cody? Are you inviting them? You know, to keep up the whole ‘wine and dine’ appearances?”
“I can. If you want me to,” I answer, carefully keeping any disappointment out of my voice since the way I’m envisioning this weekend isn’t exactly family-friendly.
“I don’t think they’d go even if you did ask. Cody hates anything swanky and Dad won’t fly. He also says that F1 racing is for stuck-up Europeans with more money than brains.” She looks down and picks at the edge of her tank top. “Does it make me a terrible person if I ask you not to invite them? Just because I want to enjoy a weekend like this on my own, with you?”
Relief rushes through me. “Absolutely not. You deserve to take a weekend off like anybody else. Cody and Wes can handle this place without you for a few days. And even if they can’t, Becca will be here to keep them in line.”
Sage fusses with her tank top some more before looking up with a short nod. “I want to come.”
“Well, I know that. You always want to com—” She slaps me in the chest with a grin as I mumble an apology through a chuckle, then take her face in my hands. “You’ll need a dress for the gala. It’s black-tie, which means that there’s no such thing as too fancy or too shiny. Do you have something? If not, we can go shopping tomorrow before I leave. It’s on me though, okay?”
She rolls her eyes. “Put away your credit card, Richard Gere. You don’t have to Pretty Woman me; I already have a fairy godmother. Her name is Becca. We can handle this, so you don’t have to worry. I promise I won’t show up wearing something you’ll be embarrassed to be seen with me in.”
My grin falls. I