Nolan did not go subtle. The furniture is clearly staged, but it’s been done well, with plush seating arranged in conversational clusters, antique-style bar carts gleaming in the corners, and flickering candlelight layered over everything like a filter designed to make people forget they’re standing in the middle of an active construction zone.
It’s incredible… and a little ridiculous. I can’t help but wonder why Nolan ever needed Eddie and me at all when he can snap his fingers and make a place look like this in two nights.
Then again, I’ve worked my ass off on these rooms, and if I catch any of these rich snobs leaning against that freshly installed wallpaper, stuff that cost $1500 a roll and took me fourteen phone calls to France to order, I might actually commit a felony and end up in hotter water than Drake.
I want to go home.
Well, Kiki, old girl, that’s not an option right now, so find yourself a drink and a corner, and try not to look like you’re completely petrified to be here.
A server offers me a glass of champagne, but the last thing I need is bubbles amplifying the anxiety already clawing its way up my throat, so I make a beeline for one of the antique bar carts and grab a glass of wine.
Now to find a quiet corner. At least I know this house better than anyone, Nolan Montague included, so I know where to look. Craning my neck, I note how the vestibule off the dining room sits in relative shadow.
I can tuck myself out of sight until this whole thing is over.
Sadly, my plan lasts all of three seconds.
Across the room, I spy a familiar face. The mayor of Sparkwood offers me a discreet nod. His wife is not so subtle, her sharp gaze slicing straight through me as she leans in to whisper something to the woman beside her.
Fantastic.
I’m at a party hosted by a Hollywood big shot, and I still can’t escape my local bully contingency.
Way past time to hide, and I’m just a few steps from freedom when I hear my name.
Pivoting, I see Mr. Howard looking like he just stepped out of a courtroom in his pressed suit. “Kiki, you look lovely.”
What the hell is he doing here?
“Hello, Mr. Howard. You’re a surprise.”
He nods. “When you sit on as many boards as I do, you get invited to these shindigs. What about you?”
No doubt code for: why would the pariah of Sparkwood be invited to such an upscale party?
I motion around the room. “I work here, actually. Nolan Montague insisted I attend tonight.”
His brows lift slightly. “So you and Eddie are working together?”
No, no, no. Come on universe, give me a break.
“We’re not working together. I mean, he’s handling the construction, and I’m in charge of the interiors. It was Nolan’s idea, actually.”
Mr. Howard gives my arm a gentle pat. “It’s all right, dear. I told you before, there’s no issue with you two working together, so long as there’s no personal overlap. Deirdre hasn’t mentioned the custody issue in weeks. We’d like to keep it that way.”
Message received, Mr. Howard. Stay the hell away from Eddie for the duration.
At this rate, I might as well lock myself in a cupboard so I don’t bother anyone by existing.
But I nod and mumble, “Absolutely no overlap at all, sir.”
“Good. Then there’s nothing to worry about.” He brushes his palms together. To him, the matter is settled. “I’m off to sample some food. Would you care to join me? Tell me about this fabulous restoration?”
My old family friend means well, but to be honest, I would rather eat glass. Pounds of it.
“Thank you, but no. I need to check on something for work.” I gesture vaguely toward the West Wing, fully aware there’s nothing on that end of the house beyond a bank of bedrooms in various states of disrepair, but accuracy at this point feels like an optional embellishment.
Mr. Howard takes his leave, disappearing into the crowd, while I stand stock still, willing my pulse to a normal rate.
