“We have an interesting dynamic.” That was one way to put it. But it was hard to describe a bond as powerful as ours. One formed through years of hardship.
She grinned, her hazel eyes lighting up with amusement. “I can tell. If he’s anything like you, I assume he’s a handful.”
“He’s worse,” I assured, a shiver running down my spine as the air conditioning kicked on.
“Is he single?” a familiar, hoarse voice asked, the camera panning to include Lil, the forever fashionista, decked out in a red plunging top that matched her lips, a black choker and earrings completing her look.
“Sorry, he’s married,” I replied with a grin, knowing Lil would probably faint if she saw all three of us Barretts together.
The camera panned back to Kee, her eyes narrowed as she leaned closer to her phone to study the screen. “Have you been painting?”
Fuck.
No wonder I was cold. I forgot I was shirtless, my attempts at splatter earlier a little too ambitious. “Yeah, I had to touch up the bathroom.”
The bathroom? Jesus. I really needed to think better on my feet.
“Where are you? A palace?”
I glanced around, realizing my back was to the living room, a full view of the penthouse there for the taking. Well, fuck if things didn’t go from bad to worse.
“I’m at a friend’s house,” I lied, guilt surging to my core. The lie felt like acid, my tongue burning at the words. “I need to get back to painting. Chat later, Plum?”
She smiled wide, the sight bandaging the wound the lie had inflicted. “Sounds good. Don’t get too wild with that paint.”
“I won’t.”
She ended the call, her face vanishing, replaced by my phone’s backdrop of a spider web, a fitting choice given my life. Everything in me wanted to call her back, invite her over, and kiss her senseless.
But I couldn’t.
“Message Kira,” I ordered, continuing toward my bedroom, ready to shower away temptation before hitting the sack. My fingers wouldn’t write the message, but my voice could. I was always better lying through my teeth than in writing. "Event tomorrow, sweets. Wear something sexy as usual. Be at the Public Garden at 8:00 PM."
The auction required arm candy, and Kira was the best there was. As a model, she was a perfect companion, used to shutting her mouth and posing. She didn’t mind fucking after in a hotel either, as long as it was five-star.
Given how out of control I was getting, I needed the distraction.
Keely
Holy guacamole.
I stared at my phone, unable to believe what I was seeing, but there it was, clear as day.
Ethan: Event tomorrow, sweets. Wear something sexy as usual. Be at the Public Garden at 8:00 PM.
It wasn’t all in my head after all. Ethan felt something too. But why hadn’t he just friggin told me instead of letting me flop around like a big, awkward flounder?
Because that would’ve been too easy. Duh. Or maybe he was in the same pickle I was, not wanting to make things weird in case it backfired.
I shot back a quick ok text, vowing not to come off eager before searching online for Public Garden events, heart dropping when I saw it was an auction hosted by the Lorelei, the creme de la creme of the art scene.
I hadn’t been to anything like it in years, my parents’ invitations to society events drying up as they fell out of favor. The whole scene was a game, one I’d never been willing to play. But the Lorelei? My parents were never invited to their galas even at the peak of their popularity.
I played it cool until Lil left for the night, not wanting to tip my hand about the invite. After how horribly she and Jorge reacted to my previous failures, I wouldn’t muck this one up in advance. I was throwing advice to the wind and hoping for the best.
As soon as the front door clicked behind Lil, I looked down at my oversized t-shirt, the fabric swallowing what little figure I had, two smooshed thighs poking out the bottom as they did the awful splat thing on the cushions. It was my typical after-work look, but it showed just how unprepared I was.
I had to find something worthy of being on the arm of Tall, Dark, and Sexy while surrounded by the wealthiest people in the state. Maybe even the country.
No pressure or anything.
I flew off the couch and rushed to my bedroom, flinging open my closet to groan aloud at its contents. Everything I owned screamed work or hippie. I didn’t have anything remotely elegant. I hadn’t needed anything like it in years.
So, I did what any girl would do in a time of need: I called my dad. Most wouldn’t rely on theirs for fashion advice, but Sean Doyle wasn’t just any dad. He was the curator at an art museum and a certifiable Lorelei stalker. If anyone knew what to wear to their events, it was him.
“Keely Kee!” he greeted, answering on the second ring, as usual.
“Dad, what do I wear to an art auction?” I exploded, flipping through clothes-hangers. If I didn’t have something, I’d have to run to Newbury Street in the morning and hope they had something bangin’ on a budget. Thanks to a bi-weekly pay schedule, I was broke as a joke after paying rent.
“Depends on the kind and the venue,” he replied, the clanking of a fork and plate in the background. At eight o’clock, he was right on schedule working his way through one of Mom’s famous overcooked meals. “What’s the scoop?”
“I’m going to one tomorrow night at the Public Garden. I have no idea what to wear.”
“The Lorelei’s?” He sounded as shocked as I expected. “How in the hell did you land tickets to that?”
“Ethan invited me.”
Stab. Stab. Scrape. Scrape. Mom most likely made meatloaf based on all the knife and fork action on the other end, the meat concoction always emerging as a chewy
