Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Is she down on her luck?
As I come closer, I catch pieces of the conversation.
The younger woman places her hands together in prayer. “I just need to get a passcode from one of your caterers. I swear, it’ll take one minute, and I’ll be done.”
Frieda’s tone is faux warm. “I desperately want to help you. But Frieda has made out a list, and you need to be on it. See? I’m in a quandary.”
She’s pretending she’s not Frieda? Give me a break.
“Yes. Same here! I’m in a quandary too,” the woman in the makeshift outfit says desperately, clearly hunting for common ground. “I’m locked out of my friend’s place without any of my things. I’m new in town, and I just need to get back in there.”
“I would think your phone could be useful,” Frieda offers oh-so-helpfully.
Gee. A phone. Why didn’t that occur to her?
“My phone is in her place. If you could just tell Maeve that Josie is here,” she says, begging Frieda, “I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”
Frieda pastes on an I don’t give a shit smile. “I wish I could help, truly, darling. I do. But I can’t. Frieda has made it clear. You need to be on the list.” She pauses, sighs, then frowns apologetically as she stage whispers, “Plus, we have a dress code, love.”
Oh, hell no.
The woman in the T-shirt—Josie, she said—turns around, and her eyes are shining with the threat of tears behind those cute glasses.
Well, if Frieda has made it clear you need to be on the guest list, I can make some things clear too. I stride right up to the woman in need and flash her a helpful grin. My dad might think I have zero taste and a lack of focus, but one thing I do have? My improv skills are unparalleled.
“Hey, sweetie. Glad you could make it. I love your dress. You’re so fashion-forward, I can’t even keep up with you,” I say with a smile that I’m sure gleams.
The brunette whips her gaze to my eyes and the breath is nearly knocked out of me. Her lips are pink and glossy, her chestnut hair is wavy, and there’s a faded, pink jagged line on her chin—a scar somehow makes her even prettier.
Her blue eyes are bright and full of question marks. But it doesn’t take long for her to connect the dots. In seconds, she’s figured out my plan and she pops out a hip, showing off her outfit with a no-big-deal wave. “Oh, thanks, I just threw it together. A little DIY.”
“You look…incredible,” I say, and that’s not a lie. It’s the whole damn truth. Smugly, I turn to Frieda, then fasten on my most apologetic look. She already thinks I’m an idiot anyway. She’ll buy this next lie easily. “My bad. Did I forget to put my date on the list?” I tap my forehead, like details are just so hard for this guy. “Josie’s with me. My plus-one.”
“Your plus-one, Wesley?” Frieda’s lips twist into a doubtful scowl as she glares at me, then stabs a finger suspiciously in Josie’s direction. “I thought you were locked out of your friend’s place?”
“Oh, I am.” Josie looks up into my eyes and floors me again with the intensity of her stare. Then she flashes the sweetest, most apologetic smile Frieda’s way as she says, “And I was in such a rush to leave because Wesley likes to surprise me with his fantastic date ideas, so he told me to meet him here. I’m excited for the show.”
Frieda’s false warmth recedes. She’s an iceberg now. “Of course. Enjoy the exhibit, Wesley,” she bites out, smiling so falsely that it’s a goddamn pleasure to watch her try to keep her shit together.
“Thanks, Fri,” I say since she hates nicknames and effectively blowing her cover with Josie. “Appreciate your generosity.”
I offer an arm to the woman in the T-shirt and slippers, and walk her into the gallery, all thoughts of seeing my teammates later as far from my mind as the chicken and squash bowl.
3
WHEN THE ART SPEAKS
Josie
I clutch the cocktail napkin with the door code like it’s the gold the hero hunts for in a pirate’s tale. “Thank you,” I say to Maeve after telling her the tale of my misfortune, down to my impromptu plus-one.
“Girl, thank you. For giving me a hell of a story. You are a determined tiger, walking through the city like that,” Maeve says, eyeing me up and down in my ragtag clothes that make me look like, well, like I was sleepwalking. She tips her forehead to Wesley, standing a few feet away and studying a painting of what looks like a vampiric ant. “Also, he’s not too unattractive.”
I laugh at her dry humor. “Yeah, he’s definitely not too bad at all. But he was just helping.”