The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings #2) - J. R. Ward Page 0,87
closing the door silently.
“Fuck. Me,” Jeff muttered to himself.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Lizzie shucked her khaki shorts and put them on the counter in Lane’s bathroom next to her work shirt. As she straightened, the mirror showed her a reflection that was familiar, but also strange: Her hair was fuzzed up from her ponytail, the sunscreen she’d put on earlier in the afternoon made her skin too shiny, and her eyes had bags under them.
All that was normal, though.
Picking up the black dress in front of her, she slipped it over her head and thought, okay, here was the weirdness.
At Easterly’s last big party, less than a week ago, she had been firmly in the staff camp. Now, she was this odd hybrid, part family by virtue of being engaged to Lane, but still on the payroll and very much involved in the preparations and staging for the visitation.
Yanking the tie out, she brushed her hair, but it had a kink in it from the rubber band and looked bad down.
Maybe there was time for a—
Nope. As she looked at her phone, the numbers read 3:43. Not enough for even one of her in-and-out showers.
In seventeen minutes, people were going to start arriving, the buses carrying them up from the parking area down on River Road to the top of the hill and Easterly’s grand front door.
“You look perfect.”
Glancing over to the doorway, she smiled at Lane. “You’re biased.”
Lane was dressed in a navy blue suit with a pale blue shirt and a coral-colored tie. His hair was still wet from his shower, and he smelled like the cologne he always wore.
Lizzie refocused on herself, smoothing the simple cotton sheath down. God, she felt like she was wearing someone else’s clothes, and jeez, she guessed she was. Hadn’t she borrowed this dress from her cousin a decade ago—also for a funeral? The thing had been laundered enough to fade out around the seams, but she’d had nothing else in her closet.
“I’d rather just be working this event,” she said.
“I know.”
“Do you think Chantal will come?”
“She wouldn’t dare.”
Lizzie wasn’t too sure about that. Lane’s soon-to-be-ex-wife was an attention grabber, and this was a prime opportunity for the woman to assert her retained relevance even though their marriage was no longer happening.
Lizzie fluffed her hair up and brought it around front. Which did nothing to help the kink.
Screw it, she thought. She was leaving it down.
“Are you ready?” she said as she went over to him. “You look worried. How can I help?”
“No, I’m fine.” He offered her his elbow. “Come on. Let’s do this.”
He led her out of his bedroom and into the corridor. As they came up to his mother’s suite of rooms, he slowed. Then stopped.
“Do you want to go in?” she asked. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
“No, I’ll leave her be.”
As they continued on to the grand staircase and began their descent, she felt like an imposter—until she sensed the tension in his arm and realized he was leaning on her.
“I couldn’t do this without you,” he whispered when they got to the bottom.
“You won’t have to,” she said quietly as they stepped off onto the marble floor. “I’m not going to leave your side.”
All around, waiters in black ties and jackets stood at the ready with silver trays, prepared to take drink orders. There were two bars set up, one in the dining room to the left, another in the front parlor to the right, with only Bradford Family Reserve, white wine, and soda available. Flowers that she had ordered and arranged were displayed prominently in each room, and there was an antique circular table centered in the entryway with a condolences book and a silver plate for receiving cards.
Gin and Richard were the next of the family to arrive, the pair of them coming down the stairs with the distance of a football field between them.
“Sister,” Lane said as he kissed her cheek. “Richard.”
The pair of them sauntered off without acknowledging Lizzie, but in her mind, it was a case of sometimes you lucked out. Anything they would say or do was likely to come across as condescending anyway.
“That is not okay,” Lane muttered at the slight. “I’m going to have to—”
“Do nothing.” Lizzie squeezed his hand to get his attention. “Listen to me when I say this. It doesn’t bother me. At all. I know where I stand, and whether your sister approves or disapproves of me? Doesn’t change my zip code in the slightest.”