Work In Progress (Red Lipstick Coalition #3) - Staci Hart Page 0,39
have to be camera ready.”
“Will you let me take care of that for you? I have connections. A personal shopper. Bea’s the closest thing to a psychic I’ve ever met—she could take one look at you and build an entire wardrobe that suited you better than what you would have chosen for yourself. And she works with hair and makeup artists. Would you…would that make you feel more comfortable?”
She sighed, smiling. “That would take a huge pressure off. Thank you, Tommy.”
Amelia was pleased, relieved. I found I liked being the reason.
“It’s no trouble.”
“So dinners, charity events, ribbon cutting, that sort of thing, right?”
“Right. And the rest of the time, we’ll be working on the manuscript.”
“Have any ideas?” She took another sip of her whiskey as we taxied to the runway.
I huffed a laugh. “Been a little busy with this.” I gestured to my bruised-up face. “And now, this.” I swept a hand at her. “We’ll get started in a couple days once we get you moved in and settled.”
A flash of fear sparked behind her eyes.
“Theo’s coordinating getting the house ready for you. They’re moving me into the other bedroom on the main floor so you can have the master.”
Surprise widened her eyes.
She made to speak, but I cut her off. “It’s the only bedroom with an attached bathroom, and I want you to have as much privacy as possible.”
“But…that’s your room. You can’t move rooms for me.”
I chuckled. “You’re marrying me. Trust me, the very least I can do is move rooms.”
She pouted at that but didn’t protest.
“I’ve got an interior designer already working on it.”
Amelia shook her head. “How in the world is it possible that all this could happen so quickly?”
“Easy.” I leaned forward a little. “Money.”
“Well, sure,” she said on a laugh, “but don’t these people have anything better to do than cater to you at the drop of a hat?”
One shoulder rose in a shrug. “I’m sure. But I pay a premium for their readiness. It probably helps that I’m easy.”
She snorted a laugh.
“In that I let them do pretty much whatever they want, creatively.”
“This is just so strange.”
“We’re in your jet, Amelia. What’s so strange about me having a room decorated for you in twenty-four hours?”
She squirmed, her nose crinkling. “I don’t know. We’re wealthy, yes. But we weren’t always wealthy. And we’ve never been…I don’t know. New York wealthy.”
“I haven’t always been wealthy either,” I said, inspecting my glass to feign indifference at the admission. “I grew up poor as poor gets.”
Her face smoothed. “Did you?”
I nodded. “Ma worked three jobs. One full-time at the factory and two part-time—one at a diner, one as a seamstress. It was all she could do to keep the lights on and food on the table. It was at her sewing machine that she first realized she was sick. She couldn’t thread the needle or keep her hands steady enough to guide fabric straight.”
“Oh, Tommy. I’m sorry,” she said without pity. “And your dad?”
“Left when Theo and I were kids.” My chest hollowed out, my anger long cooled to ash. “Somehow, Ma still found time to make paper chains for Christmas. Our stockings were always full. There was always food on the table, and our shoes never had holes in them. We were warm, cared for, loved by her. And that sacrifice took the best years of her life. Parkinson’s took the rest.”
Amelia clutched the crystal glass in her hand. I didn’t want her to have to try to think of something to say because those things people plucked out of the air to offer in those moments were always flat, empty.
But before I could speak, she did.
“Tommy, I’m so happy she has you.”
Earnest. Honest. Unexpected. Not only her words, but Amelia herself.
“I’m just thankful I found a way to take care of her like I have. Bartending wasn’t gonna cut it,” I said on a chuckle. “I had no skills to speak of. But I’m resourceful. And Ma always said I could talk my way out of anything.”
She laughed, her cheeks high and rosy.
“When I wrote my first couple chapters and showed her, she was floored. Know what she said?”
“What?”
“‘I guess I’m not surprised. You’re such a good talker.’”
Another laugh, this one more open, sweeter, a laugh from her heart.
“Between that and my overactive imagination, I guess it really wasn’t a surprise to anyone. I was more surprised that somebody actually wanted to pay me for it.”
“Well, I’m glad they did. And I’m glad you’re caring