I blink, sure I’ve misunderstood the endearment he’s just offered me in front of my brothers.
Down, girl, he’s just being nice. He doesn’t mean anything by calling you that. It’s your horny hormones going crazy.
But the pleasant frisson of heat he’s ignited sweeps out, warming my blood and sending a flush across my skin. I push the feeling away, unwilling to examine it.
“Well?” Josh prompts.
“Fine.” I blow out a long breath. “But I expect dinner.”
“You got it,Pahe.”
SIX
MOLLY
Bess is what they call in society circles “new money.” Second generation, her father is the hair-removal king of Astipia, having patented technology back before the boom. He expanded into medical tech and quickly amassed an extensive portfolio, shooting the family into a sphere of influence not previously experienced.
Mrs. Kirkson had been Miss Chars back in the day—signature big hair, hoop earrings, and a thick Lower-East-Side accent. She’d since shed the accent, toned down the hair, and upgraded to Cartier.
Bess cut her baby teeth on backstabbing nannies and gossiping groups of deadly divas. In the circles she’d grown up in, little girls were weaponized as tools for scheming fathers trying to schmooze with her parents. And it only got worse as she grew older.
Finding me, she’d once said, had been like finding an ally in a field of enemies. Our friendship was built on mutual respect, trust and honesty. I loved her with all my heart and have never thought ill of her—until today.
Today is the day I kill her.
We are up to venue eighteen. Eighteen. Eight. Teen. As in… one-eight. As in the number that comes after seventeen.
By this stage, it must be justifiable homicide. No judge could blame me—not after the horrors of this outing are revealed.
I innocently assumed I’d be accompanying the happy couple plus Josh.
Oh no. No, no, no, no, no. How naïve of me to think such a thing.
They hired a stretch Hummer.
The Greenfeld clan, the Kirkson family (complete with Grandma Kirkson and her three chihuahuas), two feuding wedding planners, a videographer (actively recording this horror show), and a makeup artist all piled into the Hummer to tour venue after venue in some kind of Groundhog Day-esque nonsense.
We stand now in the entry of Airlie House, a grand residence named after the woman who designed it. Built in the early 1700s, the beautiful manor home was originally constructed for a lesser noble upon his marriage. It took five years to complete and was repurposed into a function venue about a decade ago.
The grounds sit only a few streets over from the Queen’s palace, and a street behind the Royal Botanic Gardens. Perfectly situated if anyone asks me—which they don’t.
I lean into Josh, my polite smile firmly in place as Grandma Kirkson slips on her dust glove.
“Please tell me this is a horrible dream I’ll wake up from shortly,” I say through gritted teeth.
Josh leans in, his teeth bared in what could loosely be called a smile if said person was being tortured. “Nope. You’re in this nightmare with me,Pahe.”
I glance up at him. I’m about to ask him what Pahe means when there’s a screech from Grandmother Kirkson.
She raises her gloved finger holding it out to us for all to see.
“Dust!” She whirls, pinning the venue coordinator with a frosty glare. “What kind of garbage joint you runnin’ here? Dust? Really? Get in the car, Bessie. We’re leavin’.”
And that’s how we end up at venue nineteen.
God help us.
“It’s justifiable homicide by now, right?” Josh whispers as we pull up.
