Molly - Sarah Monzon Page 0,70

Bill didn’t seem too worried about the unexpected locale of the retreat and even offered a few encouraging words to the rest of us.

“This is an insurance nightmare,” Henry muttered as he pushed the elevator button. I didn’t disagree with him, but there was no point in wasting any more time complaining. What was done was done, and none of us had enough influence to change anything, so we might as well get on board and make the most of it.

I collected my black, second-hand Kate Spade satchel from my desk and locked my office door behind me. A quick twenty-minute drive and I pulled into the driveway of the Spanish-style house I shared with my roommate Molly.

“Mol, you home?”

“Back here!” she called, surprising me. Lately she’d been spending more time at her boyfriend Ben’s house than she did here. Not that I blamed her. Ben was as great as they came, and his four-year-old daughter was cuter than a kitten in a hand basket.

I let my bag fall to the floor, my heels clicking against the terra cotta-colored tiles as I made my way down the hall toward Molly’s bedroom.

She stood with her back to the closet holding a sequined evening gown out in front of her. “Will this work?”

Betsy sat cross-legged on Molly’s bed, her lips puckered to the side. “Do I have to go?”

Molly’s brows folded over her eyes as she marched the dress to Betsy. “Yes.”

Betsy rolled her eyes but unfolded her legs. “Fine. Give it to me.” She stood and took the hanger. “At least it’s black.”

Molly closed the bedroom door behind her so Betsy could try on the dress. She grinned and leaned her shoulder against the hall wall.

Molly and I had been friends since college, when she’d marched right up to me and declared, in no uncertain terms, that we were going to be BFFs. Since then Molly had collected a few more friends that she’d turned into a family, Betsy being the most cynical and acerbic among us. Which was one of the reasons we loved her.

I waggled my brows toward the direction of the closed door, a genuine smile unclenching my jaw. “What’s that all about?”

“Oh, nothing much. She’s only been invited to attend a big music award, and I’m making her go.”

“You’re not my mother, and it’s not like it’s the Grammys.” The door muffled Betsy’s words a bit, but the sarcasm managed to leak through the wood grains.

“You’re going and that’s final.” Molly locked eyes with me, hers shinning with delight.

I laughed at her unadulterated joy. “You’re getting the hang of that mom tone mighty quickly.”

Her cheeks pinked, and I knew her thoughts had flown to Ben and Chloe. Who knew? Maybe one day soon she would be a mommy. Just not to Betsy.

The door flew open, Betsy standing in the doorway, a frown pulling at the corners of her lips. “Happy?”

Molly covered her mouth as she nodded. “You look so pretty.”

Betsy nailed her with a glare. “If you cry, I’m not going.”

Molly blinked then lowered her hands. “Who’s crying? I’m not crying.”

Betsy rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” She reached for her holey jeans, her back toward us.

She’d let the attention stay on her longer than normal. I was proud of her and willing to help her out. “Speaking of people being forced to go someplace they don’t want to, I found out where the corporate retreat is taking place this year.”

Molly sat on the edge of the bed. “Where?”

“The Double B Dude Ranch.”

She let out a little squeal. “That sounds like so much fun!” She paused as she studied my face. “Wait. You don’t look excited.”

“She did say she was being forced somewhere she didn’t want to go.” Betsy pulled a T-shirt on over her head and turned around. “Not sure I see the problem though.”

“Oh, where should I start? Maybe the fact I’ve never ridden a horse before in my life.”

Betsy shrugged like putting one’s life in the hands, er, hooves, of a four-legged creature with a mind and will of its own and the size and weight to crush your bones was no big deal. “I took lessons when I was a kid.”

I blinked that information in, along with her People like you are the reason people like me hate people T-shirt. Maybe playing a team sport as a kid would have served her social skills better.

“What? My parents wanted me to experience some of our Argentinian culture. My grandfather was a gaucho, kind of like a cowboy here, so they made me take riding lessons for a year. All you need to remember is to keep your heels down and your chest out.”

My brain sputtered. “Excuse me?”

“It’s more like shoulders back, but my teacher kept telling me to stick my chest out and imagine I was Dolly Parton.”

I looked down at my chest, heat rising up my neck. No way would I draw attention to any, uh, attributes that made me different from the majority of my coworkers. There had to be a way to ride a horse that didn’t involve shoving one’s bosom into the air.

“Thanks for the advice.” Unhelpful though it was.

Fake it till you make it had been my motto since the first day I’d stepped foot onto UCLA’s campus, the only person in my family to ever attend college. I’d slipped a mask on over my insecurity and smiled like I belonged among those who’d grown up in Bel-Air instead of Hyde Park. I faked it all the way to graduation, through my interviews at Whalen Financial, and pretty much every day since.

How hard could pretending I knew what I was doing on a ranch be?

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