It was like biting into a poisoned cookie: the mindless rush of excitement, with an aftertaste of horror. “How do you figure?”
“Why else would she be coming here?”
“Here as inhere?” Libby looked around their dingy apartment. Surely the poor girl had suffered enough.
Jean pulled up another video clip. A radiant Hildy Johnson (helpfully captioned “Snowbound So-Cal Socialite,” as if she were a contestant onThe Bachelorand that was an actual job) addressed a room full of reporters. She was pretty enough for TV, with a halo of dark curls and sparkling brown eyes.
“Is that him?” Libby asked Jean, pointing at a man in a suit seated next to Hildy.
“Who?”
“The one who saved her.”
“Yeah, no. That’ll be some kind of handler. Lawyer, maybe. I don’t think this dude has ever walked on anything that wasn’t paved.”
The phantom weight of disappointment lifted. The real herocould still be closer to Libby’s imaginary version. Younger. A little raw—or at least less slick. Especially in the hair department.
On the tiny screen, reporters shouted questions. Had Hildy heard there were two different TV movies in the works about her ordeal? What really happened in that snow fort? Did the power of love keep them warm? Where was her rescuer now? Was it true he’d lost a toe to frostbite?
Hildy handled them like a pro, deflecting with a coyness that stopped shy of being cutesy. “He saved my life,” she reminded them. “I’m not going to throw him to the wolves. If you want the inside scoop, you can read all about it—in a Johnson Media exclusive.” A pause, while she flicked her hair over her shoulder, flashing a perfect dimple. “But I can assure you all of hisappendagesare fine.”
Laughter and a volley of camera flashes rippled across the press corps.
“Saucy,” Keoki rumbled.
“I guess she didn’t need the handler after all.” Libby watched the suit sitting next to the rescued girl try to interject something about the sizable donation her uncle’s company had made to local search-and-rescue groups.
“Yeah, well.” Jean sniffed. “She probably went to a fancy Swiss boarding school.”
“I thought that was about walking with a book on your head. Never crossing your legs in a skirt.”
“You’re thinking ofThe Princess Diaries.The spawn of oligarchs all get media training nowadays.”
“Ah.” Libby accepted this as gospel, though she wasn’t sure thinly veiled dick jokes would have been on the finishing school curriculum. Jean had always been far more conversant with the quirks of the one percent.
On-screen, things were wrapping up. “What’s next for you, Hildy?” a reporter called out as she started to rise.
“Let’s just say I’m going someplace nice and warm. With a special someone.”
“No more questions,” her companion announced.
“Is she talking about the guy who saved her?” Libby asked as a new video started playing.
“Backcountry Beefcake? Probably. But that’s not the main takeaway here.” Setting down her phone, Jean wrapped her hands around Libby’s upper arms, punctuating each word with a shake. “This. Is. It. Opportunity with a capitalO. The fact that she almost bit it the week before Me-mas is like the universe sliding into your DMs.Hey, girl, ready to say hello to your destiny? Because she is on her way to meet you.”
“You mean Lillibet. Who I am not.”
“You know that and I know that, butshedoesn’t.”
“Pretty sure it’s going to come up.”
“Not if we play our cards right.”
Uh-oh. Libby had seen that demented gleam in her roommate’s eyes before. “What does that mean?”
“All we need to do is pretend. It’s a couple of days, totally manageable. Fake it till we make it.”
“You mean all we have to do is lie.”
