“What am I gonna do?” she weeps, looking down at the shredded dress. “I’m gonna have to miss, and—”
“And you’re close enough to my size that you can wear one of mine,” I remind her. “I mean, you’ve got bigger boobs, but we can still share clothes. It’ll be fine, honey. You know I’ve got you covered for anything from a hoe-down to a red-carpet gala, with a stopover at a kink club or a masquerade ball in between. Benefits of never tossing clothes away.”
I’m in full-on neener-neener mode, but she doesn’t care. Yet. “In fact, I dare you . . . to let me pick your dress from my closet.”
She laughs and snot bubbles out one of her nostrils. “Ew . . .” she moans, grabbing at the glovebox for a napkin.
“Do not get your snot on Cammie. Though, maybe we could make Ace give her a full wash and detail. Wax, even. Hell, maybe we can just wax Ace as punishment. Press those hot wax strips on his chest and let her rip! We could even film it for Instagram. Serves him right.”
Tiffany smiles the smallest, saddest smile ever. “Okay, I’ll borrow a dress.” She avoids the topic of Ace altogether, and I let her for now, but she’s going to have to do something about him.
“All right, then. Let’s haul ass and see if we can still wedge in our mani-pedis without their gossiping about us the whole time.”
Tiffany acts like she’s filing her nails and chewing gum. “Rude.”
She does a pretty spot-on imitation, not that it’s ever been about us. We’re always on time and ready for Wine and Whine. Until today. Today, we’re those customers.
May the nail techs forgive us.
Chapter 16
Elle
The Fox Manor is one of those places that a lot of people list on their Instagrams with hashtags like #LifeGoals or #BucketList. I mean, I get it, I really do. Allan Fox’s estate really is that, a legit estate. Built a hundred and fifty years ago by a shipping magnate and situated on fifteen acres of forested meadowlands, it’s a call back to an earlier time.
When the original family died off, their shipping empire long forgotten in the march of technology, Mr. Fox bought it as a near dilapidated wreck. Since then, he’s renovated the place from the ground up, giving it a modern facelift while keeping the old-fashioned gothic architecture. The forest has been tamed back, the gardens redone, and the inside has been updated while still keeping the vintage, turn of the century feel.
I hesitate a beat too long when the valet holds out his hand. My car might not be the fancy European classics that usually grace Mr. Fox’s circle drive, but Cammie’s my baby and I’m protective of her.
“Be careful with her, please.” The valet smiles politely, though I’m sure he thinks I’ve lost my mind, and I force my hand to open, letting the keys fall into his hand.
As we approach the door, I realize that maybe it’s not just letting go of Cammie that’s making me nervous. Behind those doors are my dad and my boss, two men who want very different things from me and are important to me for very different reasons.
My feet stop, and Tiffany tries to pull me along. “What’s wrong?”
“Just . . . Dad and Colton . . . and I don’t know what to do.” I’m stumbling over my words, but my brain is even more of a mess.
Tiffany looks from me to the door twice before a smile takes her face. I know what she’s going to say, and maybe I even want her to. Need her to.
“I dare you . . . to go in there with the clanging brass balls I know you have and don’t let either of them jerk you around. Be big, bold, and you with no apologies. Oh, and I dare you tell the waiter that the hors d’oeuvres are utterly orgasmic and beg for him to bring you another taste.”
It works. I crack a smile and swat at her hand. “God, you are the worst.” She smiles at me, hearing what I truly mean, but I tell her anyway. “And the best.”
Her shrug is casual. “I know.”
Putting on my bravest face, I follow Tiffany into the foyer to the estate. Entering, we’re both impressed when we see Miranda looking sexy in a slinky red number that makes my dress look positively casual when I’d worried about being overdressed. Miranda just needs Roger Rabbit to complete the illusion.
“Ladies!” Miranda says, smiling hugely as she comes tottering over on five-inch heels. Is she manhunting tonight or something? If so, good for her, I guess. She deserves a little happiness, and maybe some steaminess, in her life after losing her husband. Though I worry that she’s hunting at a work function.
What’s that saying? Don’t shit where you eat.
Then again, I’m the last person who should offer that advice, considering I’m not sticking to the intention of it in the least by messing around with Colton.
“Hi, Miranda,” I say cautiously. She seems exceptionally excited to see us, me in particular, considering I defected to the fifth floor.
She wraps her arms around me, pulling me in tight for a hug though I remain stiff-armed. I mouth at Tiffany, “What’s happening?” But she shrugs, eyes wide.
“I miss you so much. Tiffany doesn’t have anyone to cause trouble with. I thought I’d like that, but it’s so boring.” Her huff of boredom sounds like a sorority girl in a long line at Starbucks and smells like fruity champagne.
“That’s because New Girl is about as interesting as plain rice cakes,” Tiffany grumbles.
My head spins. “You hired someone to replace me?”
Miranda pushes at my shoulder like I told a funny joke. “Of course we did. You’re all big time upstairs. Megan is perfectly nice. She’s just still settling in.”
She takes a sip of her champagne and looks around, eyes wide in wonder, and I again consider that she might be a tad bit tipsy already. “But enough on work, okay? Even if I’m surrounded by coworkers, that don’t mean we have to talk shop, right? I mean . . . look at this place.”
I’ll give it to Allan Fox. When he renovated his estate, he did it right. The back garden’s beautiful, the early evening lit up with tastefully hidden lights and a well laid out drink table.
“We’ve got a band,” Tiffany notices as music floats over the grounds. “Terrible choice in music.”
“What?” Miranda asks, humming to herself. “Hazy Shade of Winter rocks.”
“Yeah . . . when it’s actually done as rock and not jazz,” Tiffany says before clearing her throat and elbowing me. “Incoming.”
It’s all the warning I get before I feel Ricky and Billy at my back. Billy puts an arm around my shoulders before placing a chaste kiss to my cheek, and Ricky pretty much drools over Miranda. “Hey, cuz, ain’t seen much of you lately. What’s been shakin’?”
“Just your dicks when you use the men’s room,” Tiffany shoots back. “So not much.”
“Miranda, ignore them and their unfounded taunts,” Ricky says, eyes roaming up and down Miranda’s curves. “Instead, please tell me you’ve got an empty spot on your dance card for me.”
I’ve never seen Miranda flirt, but she seems to be jumping right in the deep end and swimming just fine. She runs a red fingertip along her lip, drawing Ricky’s eyes right where she wants them as she tilts her chin ever so slightly. She’s a coy seductress. Who would’ve guessed?