Harriet straightened. “I do not wear camouflage all the time. Keep it up and I’ll kick your ass.”
Twenty minutes later, laughter still lingered as Frankie crossed the room and flipped on a vintage lamp. Its warm glow washed over a tufted velvet chair, now positioned dead center like a throne awaiting judgment. She and Ziggy had commandeered it from the basement, rescuing it from renovation exile.
She swept an arm toward it with all the flair of an emcee unveiling a game show prize. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Frankie declared, “may I present the hot seat.”
“We shall start with a demonstration. Rae, darling, come be our brave volunteer,” Ziggy said.
Rae blinked. “Me?”
“Don’t fight your destiny,” Ziggy said, waving her forward.
Rae glanced at the others, then approached with the wary caution of someone about to be sawed in half. She perched on the chair, stiff and wide-eyed.
Frankie stepped beside her and held up a mirror. “Observe: clear eyes, fair hair, soft contrast between features. My bet is Light Spring.”
Ziggy eagerly selected swatches. “Mint green. Soft peach. Pale coral.” He held each to Rae’s face, nodding like a proud fairy god-stylist. “This child will glow brighter than a Pinterest mood board.”
Frankie lifted a dark fabric square to Rae’s jawline. “Black, however, drains her. See that shadow? That is the death of joy.”
Rae squinted into the mirror. “So, no black hoodies?”
Frankie hid a smile. According to Chapter Four of How to Make Friends (Even If You’re a Bit of an Asshole), shared activities build trust. Which made this swatch-fest a master class in covert emotional manipulation. And honestly, less painful than trust falls.
Ziggy clutched his pearls. “Sweet pea, you’re a daffodil, not a villain. Let the darkness go.”
Laughter burst again until Frankie hushed them with a semi-playful scowl. “All right. Who’s next?”
George raised a tentative hand. “What am I?”
Ziggy squinted, sizing him up like a rare gemstone. “You, darling, are a Soft Summer with a dash of chaos. Sage, soft rose, periwinkle, yes. Tangerine orange, never again. It is wreaking havoc on your energy.”
George looked down at his shirt. “I thought orange was rugged.”
Ziggy shook his head gravely. “Your thoughts should be sued for slander.”
For the next hour the room buzzed. Mirrors flashed, laughter bubbled, swatches fluttered like confetti.
At eight thirty, Ziggy closed the last velvet-lined kit with the reverence of a man returning crown jewels. “Darlings, color has been served.”
Frankie clapped lightly. “And that concludes tonight’s activities.”
“Thank God,” Ziggy sighed. “My feet hurt, my mascara is settling, and I am down to my emergency-reserve charm.”
When the last club member vanished into the night, Frankie joined Ziggy on the fainting couch.
She tipped her head. Harriet’s comment still needled. “What would you do if your best friend’s emotional season completely clashed with yours?”
Ziggy eyed her. “Explain.”
“You are excessively perky and I am unrepentantly grumpy,” Frankie said. “Opposite palettes. Does that mean we should never aim for more than our current surface friendship?”
“Doll face, my feelings for you are not surface. Are you saying my affection is unrequited?”
Something in his expression faltered, but it vanished so fast she wondered if she’d imagined it.
“You like me more than surface?” Frankie asked carefully. “Why?”
He pressed his palm to his chest. “Darling, were you absent the day Sophia lectured on the Opposites Attract trope?”
