CHAPTER THREE
AVON
“Holy crap,”Clare exclaims the moment she clambers inside the Uber. “When you said you were getting a new style, I didn’t expectthat.”
The ‘that’ in question is my newly dyed shocking pink hair. I rub my hand over it, trying to dispel my nerves while my friend secures her belt.
We both wave goodbye to her mum, who stands in the middle of the driveway, cupping her elbows and looking worried.
I arch an eyebrow at my friend. “Where did you say you were going?”
She gives a cursory glance back, then snorts, shaking her head. “I told her the truth. Whatever else she’s fretting about, she conjured up all by herself.” Then she nudges me with her elbow. “And stop avoiding the question.”
“There was a question?”
“Okay. More like an exclamation but spill the beans. Was this your mother’s idea or yours?”
I smile broadly, easily seeing through the ruse. “You’re allowed to insult my colour palette if you want. No need to pin the blame on my mum.”
“Who’s blaming who? You look fabulous. I had no idea Ms Drab could spice herself up this way.”
I mutter a thanks and rub my hair again. The cut is far shorter than I’m used to, clipped to lie flat and follow the contours of my skull. It makes my big ears feel ten times larger, flapping in the breeze.
My mother chatted about what a lovely shape my head was and how flattering it would be, and all I saw was three years of growth disappearing beneath the flash of her scissors.
For all that our move down here has gone most of the way to restoring my confidence, tonight it’s not on such stable footing.
“Don’t you dare look worried,” Clare continues, aiming her phone at me and taking a picture, much to the driver’s distress.
“You’ll make us crash,” I tell her, so he doesn’t have to. “At least leave the flash off until we’ve pulled to a stop.”
“I only needed the one.” She buries her nose in her phone, thumbs sliding and tapping across the keyboard with a speed that puts me in awe. “Here.” She shoves the screen at me. “Now you can reap more than just my compliments.”
The post on her socials immediately starts building up likes and I hand it back before anyone can manage a comment. My thrift-store-new black dress with long white lace cuffs looked good in the mirror at home, and that’s the image I want to carry forward to the party. I really, really, really do not need to spot a line from a troll.
“You should take a picture of yourself. That dress is gorgeous, and it does something divine to your legs.” I reach over to pinch at the deep red fabric. “If Wilder kicks you back, I’m happy to take you home.”
“Do you think he will?”
I think the vagaries of the upper echelon are far beyond my understanding, but I settle for a shake of my head and a reassuring squeeze of her upper arm. “No. He’d be absolutely crazy to pass you up.”
As we pull into a quiet cul-de-sac, far away from any address I’ve ever visited, the Beaumont mansion is on full display; all forty-three rooms if the old real estate listing can be believed.
It’s the house right at the end, the street frontage just a fraction of the land area judging from the lights spilling out the back. A few spotlights illuminate the imposing gate and my heart sinks as I see the security boxes.
There’s not a lot of hope in my voice as I say, “Don’t suppose your invite came with a code.”
And to my surprise, she waggles her phone. “Don’t need one. Someone was enthusiastic enough to give me his number.”
“Girl,” I say, beyond impressed. “You buried that lead.”
We get out of the car, and I pluck at my dress hem, then fix the straps on my absurdly high shoes.
“If he doesn’t answer,” Clare continues, “we can always cut through the neighbours. There’s a set of docks along the riverbank.”
“There is no way I’m going for a nighttime swim just so you can get laid.”
But Clare’s not paying attention, dropping her voice low as she makes the call. “He’s on his way.”
