“Yeah. Maybe we could double-date. After I work on myself, I’m going to find a nice guy. You know?” He smirked.
So did Riley.
“I bet you will.”
He smiled at the wink she gave them, turned around, and eagerly went with Harrison.
Something told Riley that decision was the start of truly wonderful things for Rowan Keene.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Thirty minutes later, Operation Brat kicked off.
“Remember, I’ve spread the word with those who would care that we’re taking Rita down tonight. After finding out how shady she was, a lot of ‘em here are cheering us on,” Harrison told Riley and the others through their earpieces. “So, some of the people here won’t hold what you do against you. The others I don’t really know, but we can’t do anything about them. And then there’s a third group—the assholes who are just as self-serving as Rita—who are fair game.”
“We’ve been handed carte blanche to be naughty!” Iris said.
“I live for these moments,” Eli told them.
Drawing a deep breath to steady her nerves, Riley said, “Okay, everyone. It’s go time.”
The soft music of the stringed quartet was interrupted when a hip-hop song started blaring, controlled by the micro-DJ controller Stryker had hanging around his neck.
“Listen up, party people!” he yelled, holding out the last syllable. “DJ Vanilla Thunder is in the house, introducing the motherfucking star of the show!”
His ballcap and wraparound sunglasses hid his identity well, and Riley knew no one would suspect he was really a famous director. Waiting behind some trees, she giggled along with other members of her entourage.
“What is going on?” Rita asked, cutting through the stunned crowd.
Riley chanced a look around one of the trees and saw people dressed nicely, holding champagne flutes and small plates, clearly confused at Stryker’s—or DJ Vanilla Thunder’s—interruption.
“I’ll tell you what’s going on.” Stryker did some record scratching before he continued. “You all wanted a party? Well, here she is. Give it up for Riley… Motherfucking… Hartwell!”
The theme music they’d selected began blaring, and Riley felt like a professional wrestler walking to the ring as she emerged with her entourage in tow.
A couple of people clapped. Everyone else just stared in wide-eyed amazement.
“Champagne,” Riley said, holding out her hand.
The music died down. A server appeared and handed her a flute. “Thank you,” she said, unable to be unkind to the server who was just there doing their job.
She made a mental note to find out what event company had been hired and send a nice gift to the workers.
Riley took a sip, spit it out dramatically, and lowered the glass and said, “Champagne needs to be served at between forty-six and fifty degrees. I like mine at precisely forty-eight, but I’ll tolerate anything between the stated range. Leah, check it.”
She held the flute out.
Leah promptly pulled out a digital thermometer from her purse, snatched the champagne, and checked it. “What the literal hell? This is fifty-six degrees!”
Riley gasped. “Tell me I did not just hear that. I’m making it up, right? It’s all a bad dream?” She looked at her entourage.
Cami and Lana both made a show of checking the thermometer.
“She’s right,” Lana said. Fifty-six.”
“Do they know who they’re dealing with here?” Cami asked. “Like, do they even know you’re Riley Hartwell?”
“Fifty-six?” Riley said, shaking her head. “Fifty-fucking-six-fucking degrees.” She took the flute, tossed it into the grass, and turned to look at everyone. “I just want to know who pissed in a glass and tried to serve it to me as champagne?”
