She channeled the attitude of the haughtiest guests she’d dealt with at Dolphin Bay. “I am Eve.” A flicker of uncertainty made her add, “Sockless Tommy’s niece.”
He glanced at the very un-cowboy tablet in his hands, tapping the surface before turning it to face her. “If you could just sign here.”
Jean debated raising her sunglasses to read the minuscule lines of text but didn’t want him to see the blank look in her eyes.
“Standard NDA,” he said, with anI-know-righteye roll. Just one of those everyday annoyances, like having to show your passport before jetting to the Alps for a ski vacation. “For everyone’s protection.”
“Indeed,” she droned, in the affectless deadpan that definitely did not qualify as an accent. Between that and the frozen face, Eve’s vibe was fullyI am so cool I’m basically a cadaver. Who sleeps in a designer crypt. Her attitude dared any of these fools to ask her to line dance.
“Thank you. The family would love for you to join them in the main house for refreshments. I’ll tell your driver where to park.”
Jean inclined her head, as if this were the bare minimum she expected at the many house parties she attended in her life as a wealthy parasite. Er, socialite.
No wonder Charlie thought he could get away with treating the little people like dirt, if he’d been brought up in this environment. About time someone taught him otherwise.
All she had to do was make it to the house in these death-trap platform sandals. They’d looked so alluring on the shelf, before she’d strapped them onto her feet. Definitely no sport mode on these babies.
An attractive middle-aged woman stepped out the front door, already smiling. She was wearing a long denim shirtdress that managed to suggest “western” without making her look like shewas waiting tables at a barbeque joint. But it wasn’t the low-key elegance that hit Jean hardest. The perfectly layered dark hair was lightly threaded with silver and her eyes looked so much like a certain two-faced snakeologist’s, she might as well have been wearing a sign around her neck that saidI’m Charlie’s mom!
“Hello! Welcome…” The other woman’s smile stayed bright as her voice trailed off in question.
“I am Eve,” Jean said again.
The temptation to keep talking was strong, but a central part of the Eve concept was being a conversational black hole. No babbling allowed. Instead of trying to justify her presence by volunteering information, she let other people fill in the blanks.
“Eve! How wonderful to meet you.” Before Jean could react, she’d been pulled into a hug. It required all her presence of mind to stay limp and sluglike instead of reciprocating. “I’m Sandy Pike. We’re so happy you could join us for the festivities.”
“I’m sure.”
Mrs. Pike recovered from this ego trip with impressive speed. “What do you do, Eve?”
“I dabble. I’m a dabbler.”
“That sounds very… creative. Like your clothes!”
Jean side-eyed Mrs. Pike but detected no trace of covert insult. She kept her guard up anyway, in case Charlie’s mother was as slick and duplicitous as her son.
“I met Sockless Tommy once. You don’t look much like him.”
“Lucky me.” Jean’s jaw felt like concrete. Was she about to be exposed this close to seeing Charlie again?
Mrs. Pike laughed. “All those ex–professional wrestlers have the same sense of style, don’t they?” She linked her arm with Jean’s so they could walk side by side. “Of course a lovely young thing like you isn’t going to have a mullet perm.”
“No,” Jean agreed, wondering what other fun tidbits Hildy had neglected to mention about Jean’s fake uncle.
“Now, do you need a potty break,” Charlie’s mother asked, with the sweetness of a preschool teacher, “or are you ready to join the others?”
Would Jean have been greeted this warmly if she’d shown up as herself—sometime waitress and reluctant resort employee—instead of the alleged niece of a rich stranger with questionable taste in hairstyles?
The front door loomed ahead. It was the moment of truth—and consequences. For Charlie, obviously. Those butterflies in Jean’s stomach were pure performance anxiety, untainted by anything weak and embarrassing like excitement.
Jean flashed back to the last time she’d stood outside a door waiting to see him. She imagined a flamethrower spitting fire across the empty lot of her feelings, burning down any weeds that might have sprouted from the dirt. Then she pictured herself kicking aside the ashy husk that represented the last scrap of her delusions about Charlie “The Snake” Pike.
It didn’t matter if he had twenty girlfriends inside. She was here for one thing, and one thing only. “What was the question?”
“I asked if you were ready to go in,” Mrs. Pike reminded her, tactfully ignoring Jean’s momentary zone-out.
Right. Showtime. Jean squared her shoulders. Prepare for total domination, Charlie. She turned to his mother with a thin smile.
