Not that I’d ever really dreamt of a sister. Austin was all I needed.
But still.
We had three sets of stairs in the farmhouse; the wide kitchen staircase was the easiest to navigate in heels, so I stomped down only to be greeted by the caterers. We all considered Da a gourmet cook, but with all the people invited, solo cooking wasn’t feasible even if it was only drinks and heavy hors d’oeuvres. Ember &Ash in Princeton was at the helm tonight. Dad knew the owners; the Álvarez family had inquired about potentially putting their house on the market this spring.
I inhaled an aroma of deliciousness from the second-floor landing before gliding downstairs to the kitchen. Well, maybe notgliding—I spent most of my time in turf shoes or cleats, not high heels—but it wasn’t until I tripped over the last couple steps that my cheeks sparked with embarrassment. “And she sticks the landing!” someone shouted when I got my footing at the bottom.
I stood there for a moment, staring at the floor and desperately willing my warm face to cool before looking up and across the kitchen to see a familiar guy smiling at me. He was wearing Ember & Ash’s standard light gray and white ombré button-down with black pants, and was busy polishing glassware. “Marco…” a nearby server warned. She was plating one of the appetizers, which I recognized as the cranberry-fig-goat-cheese crostini.
“It’s okay, Teresa,” Marco replied. “I know her.”
“Yeah,” I corroborated. “Unfortunately.”
Marco Álvarez and I had gone to school together. He’d been two grades ahead of me, the resident soccer player that all the girls swooned over thanks to his naturally tousled dark hair and salted-caramel-colored eyes.
Yes, I realized that description suggested I had a thing for him, too.
Or, far more likely, I had a sweet tooth and constantly craved candy.
“What are you doing here?” I asked now.
Marco inspected a wineglass. “Helping out.”
“It’s a Saturday night.”
“I’m aware,” he said lightly. “I own a calendar, believe it or not.”
“So don’t you have something to do?” I teased as the front doorbell rang. Marco and I were sort of friends. We weirdly used to park next to each other at school and hang out by our cars after sports ended. We’d talk, banter, and sometimes bicker about random stuff until he remembered he was supposed to be somewhere or had someone to meet. A smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth. “There isn’t a party at one of the supper clubs?”
Marco sighed. He played soccer at Princeton now. “They’re calledeatingclubs,” he said, then gave me a look. “And I bet my Tower membership that youknewthat, Catwoman.”
Indeed, I had, since Princeton was recruiting me for field hockey. Their historic “eating clubs” were the exclusive social clubs on campus, absolutely legendary. F. Scott Fitzgerald had been in one when he was a student.
But okay,Catwoman?
“Oh, great.” I resisted the urge to touch my eye makeup. “Does it look that bad?”
“No.” Marco shook his head. “It looks cool, Mads. Goes with the whole witchy thing you have happening.” He winked. “You’re missing the pointy hat, though.”
“It’s at the dry cleaner’s,” I shot back.
Marco tilted his head, clearly holding back a laugh. “Bummer.”
My hands went to my hips. “Okay, you know what,” I began, even though I had no idea where I was heading. “I—”
“Madeline!” My grandmother saved me from fumbling. Nana breezed through the swinging kitchen door, with her silver hair in a chic bob and wearing a sophisticated pink tweed-and-sequined blazer-skirt combo. “I’ve been looking for you,” she said. “Katie is with most of the bridesmaids, and I think it would be nice if—” She cut herself off, and a blink later, was unbraiding my braid. “Darling, no,” she said. “You have such beautiful hair; you should show it off every once in a while…”
Decades ago, Nana had been a hairstylist. She’d worked at one of those fancy salons that served clients champagne while they got their hair done.
Today, she owned the place.
“Okay, wonderful!” She smiled once she was satisfied with her work. There was no mirror in the kitchen, but I knew we had a half-up, half-down situation on our hands. “Doesn’t she look lovely?” she asked Marco.
And dear lord, my face practically burst into flames.
“Yes,” he said, nodding robotically. “She is beauty and she is grace.”
I flipped him off when Nana took me by the shoulders and directed me toward the door.
