security firm to let you in.”
“Nah, I like L’Etoile. The way they’ve bastardized everything beautiful appeals to me.”
She laughs softly and then sobers. “How’s your mom?”
“In remission,” I say, my throat tight.
“If you need help…” The offer hangs in the air, sharp enough to leave scratch marks on my skin. “You were there for me when my father was sick. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that.”
“And you didn’t take a cent from me.”
“Harper.”
“We’re managing,” I tell her softly, which is mostly true. My paintings are just shocking enough to sell for large sums of money through my Etsy shop, usually sold a few minutes after I post them on my Instagram account. That money has supported me and my mother, but the medical bills are a little too intense for even a bloodthirsty Calypso.
“Have you talked to Christopher?”
“Tonight. I have an invitation to the Tanglewood Historical Society’s Annual Gala.”
She groans. “You’re going to run the gauntlet?”
“It was the only way I could find him. He wasn’t at his office.” I hesitate, a little uncertain whether I want to ask the next question. There’s something intimate about my encounter there, more intimate than it should seem for talking to a stranger with the conference room door open. “Have you met Sutton Mayfair?”
“No, but I’ve heard about him. He’s new on the scene, so naturally all the old-money girls are obsessed with him.” Her voice turns speculative. “Apparently he’s very sexy.”
“If you like that Southern-boy charm.” Which apparently I do? I haven’t had much exposure to that in LA or New York City, but turns out it’s seductive in a visceral way. It was easy to friendzone the artists at Smith College. Easy to roll my eyes at the ambitious business students, enough like Christopher Bardot to make me hate them on sight.
Harder to ignore the masculine confidence inherent in Sutton Mayfair.
“It’s more than an act. He grew up on a ranch, so you know…” Her voice sounds like pure wickedness as the words trail off.
“So he likes mucking stalls?”
“He’s probably good with rope, I was going to say.”
That makes me laugh when I didn’t think it was possible, not in my current mood. This is why Avery is my best friend. She can make me laugh even when I’m walking the figurative plank over a circle of rabid sharks. “I’m absolutely one hundred percent positive I won’t be finding out whether he’s good with rope.”
“Never say never.”
I remember the heat in his blue-sky eyes and shiver with remembered response. “I’m going to the gala to see Christopher. I doubt I’ll even talk to Sutton there, especially if he has the old-money girls flipping their hair to get him into bed.”
“Okay,” she says cheerfully, clearly not believing a word.
“And even if I did talk to him, I have no interest in going to bed with some overmuscled Neanderthal who looks amazing in a suit. I like my men more… enlightened.”
“Mhmm. I’m going to have someone send over this dress I ordered online but haven’t worn yet. It’s red and shimmery and it will look incredible on you.”
“I don’t need a dress,” I say, even though absolutely nothing in my canvas carry-on is suitable for a gala. There are sundresses and skinny jeans and paint-splattered pj’s.
“Text me when you get home, or I’ll worry about you.”
“You’re just hoping I give you dirty details, but there won’t be anything dirty. There’s only going to be me telling Christopher he’s an arrogant jerk face, and him bending to my will.”
She laughs. “Okay, but text me anyway.”
The dress arrives an hour later, even more gorgeous than she made it sound. There’s a red silk bodice that makes my modest breasts look impressive in the ornate gold-plated wall mirror. And a black wrap skirt that floats around me like liquid when I walk, revealing an impressive amount of leg. It’s a dress that a modern-day goddess would wear, along with the black and red Louboutins included in the box. In short I’m dressed to kill.
The gala takes place in the Tanglewood Country Club, a place that charges enough money to its members that the carpet shouldn’t look quite as shabby as it does. It’s a place with more clout than taste, which probably says more about the historical society than they think.
I can hear the gentle hum of voices and clink of glasses from down the hallway. The suited security guard makes me wait while he searches a printed guest list, which I’m not on. Do they really