And frowns.
And shoves her phone in her pocket.
“What?” I ask.
“Trolls.” She spits out the word like it tastes bad, and the tips of her ears go pink.
In other words, she’s lying. “Naomi.”
“This is not the most important thing we need to worry about today.”
I open my own phone and swipe to Instagram.
And then I choke on air.
I’m tagged in a post from two hours ago. In Tickled Pink. By an account I don’t recognize, which means it’s probably one of the ever-growing number of tourists who keep showing up in town.
It’s a picture of Dylan carrying me over his shoulder out of the school building, ankle bandaged, wearing my rainbow leggings, with the captionOMGeeeeeeeee!! I just saw The Tickled Pink Plumber carrying Tavi Lightly to his truck! THEY ARE SO DATING!
Except he’s never carried me out of the school building in rainbow leggings, nor have I had my ankle wrapped in Tickled Pink in daylight hours.
“He kidnapped Sam,” I whisper.
“Tavi, she’s a pro. She’s got this.”
“But what ifhe knows? What if he figures out she’s not me? What if—” I swallow hard and don’t finish that.
What if hedoesn’tknow it’s not me?
Naomi bites her lip. “Have you heard from Sam?”
I shake my head.
“Me neither.” She hugs me again. “So we’re going to put all the positive vibes out in the world, trust that she has this and that he’s worthy of you and won’t do something stupid, and we’re going to go charm the pants off this British billionaire who’s looking to do some good with his new inheritance.”
Right.
That’s what I’m here for.
To secure financing for the farm from Fitzwilliam Hawthorne so that our little community can keep thriving on chocolate.
“Okay. Okay. Let me touch up my lipstick, and then we’ll go kick ass.”
Ten minutes later, I’m still a disaster in my head, but that’s nothing new when it comes to work situations.
I can do this.
We head out, walking to the hotel in the warm evening without fear of being recognized. I’m in a business suit and kitten heels, my usual glitzy sunglasses swapped for fake reading glasses, my hair swept back in Phoebe’s favorite style, and my usual Margot Lightly purse upgraded to a Coach messenger bag with our sales pitch inside.
Naomi’s utterly perfect in twill pants and a soft silk blouse, her wild curls framing her face, her makeup light, her messenger bag carrying truffle samples.
We can do this.
We can woo investors with the best of them.
We have to. The whole farm is depending on it.
Naomi smiles at me as we push into the door of the small hotel. “We’re going to kick ass,” she whispers.
