“Ow. That hurts,” Nora says in a monotone.
“Your babies will get ponies,” Ted goes on, like no one else has said anything. The man has tunnel vision and apparently tunnel hearing. “Not even my own kids got ’em.” He gives me a you-know-what-I-mean wink.
I just stare at him. If Noah and I had babies, our kids would enjoy more material comfort than others. He is a billionaire after all. But there would still be very definite limits on what they could have—getting everything you want all the time can’t be healthy.
Nora puts on a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Lovely idea, Ted. But where are they going tokeepthe ponies?”
“Here.” He rolls his arms vaguely in an I-don’t-know-what-the-problem-is gesture. “I can build a stable. Joey, look into it.”
Joey taps his tablet. “Right away, sir.”
“Of course. And riding through a colonnade of penis canons would befabulousfor a child’s psychological well-being and emotional development. I can’t wait to see how Noah and Bobbi’s offspring turn out,” Nora says sweetly.
Whatcanons?
Ted lets out a booming laugh. “Hey, having fun is important! Look how well Noah turned out.”
A muscle in Noah’s jaw ticks. Regardless of the amount offunhe may have had frolicking among…penis canons, it looks like he wants to murder his father.
“Let’s take this somewhere else.” Noah hooks one arm under his father’s shoulder and the other around his mother’s waist and drags them away. Joey follows, tapping his tablet.
Noah looks back and mouths,Wait for me, we have to talk.
No kidding. Except my brain doesn’t know exactly what we should be talkingabout. I’m barely wrapping my mind around the fact that Ted Lasker is even weirder than I expected and Nora isn’t capable of hiring a plumber in Dubai.
Despite Noah saying that his folks aren’t part of the painting, will they be willing to stay out of our lives? And how about our kids? Should they be deprived of their grandparents?
Too much to think about right now.I head toward the buffet for something to drink, and just as I get there Reggie, the person I’d least like to see, stops right in front of me.
Her judgmental gaze sweeps me up and down, and a sneer twists her bright red lips. “Jesus, Bobbi, you look like the hired help.”
Although many of the guests are in bikinis, she’s in a flowing sundress and high heels. Not because she wants to look fashionable. My money’s on her not having a toned enough belly that she deems worthy of displaying in front of the movers and shakers of Hollywood. She’s exhaustingly critical of both her own appearance and that of others, and can’t stand it when she doesn’t measure up in some area. I don’t know how she—or anyone—can live her entire life comparing herself to others, from her body to clothes to what she puts in her mouth.
Floyd stops right behind her. He’s in red, white and blue trunks with the U.S. Air Force emblem on them. Aviator shades cover his eyes, and he’s nodding in time with the music. He probably thinks his outfit and those sunglasses make him look like Tom Cruise inTop Gun.
I’m way too dazed and emotionally drained from meeting Noah’s parents and Joey to deal with Reggie or Floyd, so I start to go around the cockroach couple. Better to find some quiet place to settle my thoughts until Noah returns.
“Hey, I’m talking to you,” she says.
“And I’m avoiding you. How did you get in anyway?” She isn’t important or famous enough to rub shoulders with Ted Lasker.
“I know people, unlike you. Rachel’s boyfriend is a good friend of mine.”
Translation: She slept with him in the last two years. If it had been longer than that, she would’ve labeled him “an old friend.”
She plants her palm on my chest as her gaze zeroes in on the cake. “Did you make that?”
“Yup.” I say, while debating whether to just push her hand off my chest or break it. The former would be the professional way to go, although the latter would bemuchmore satisfying. “Gorgeous, isn’t it?”
Her face turns red, probably since she’s dying to tell me it’s fugly as hell but can’t. Calculations race behind her feverish eyes. “Not bad,” she finally says. “So when are you sending the designs for my engagement cake?”
“Never. I already told you I’m not baking anything for you.”
“You can’t talk to my fiancée like that!” Floyd says, trying to look aggressive.
“Don’t you have a gluten allergy? Aren’t you feeling faint? Maybe experiencing a little shortness of breath?” My eyes slide to the cake and the huge pile of pastries. I’m not sure how many of these super skinny Hollywood people are planning to indulge, but Rachel spared no expense to make sure her party had everything, including a giant flakey pastry baked in the shape of swans with their beaks touching.
“Look, I’m giving you a chance to redeem yourself and get some good publicity,” Reggie says.
