“Nope.” She starts dragging me toward a hallway. “You'll ruin the surprise.”
I narrow my eyes. “I don't like surprises.”
“That's because you're emotionally stilted.”
I groan. She cackles and pulls me through a set of massive ballroom doors.
And my jaw nearly hits the floor.
The Grand Ballroom has been converted into some kind of futuristic fashion disco.
Black. Silver. Light. Movement. Energy.
A massive stage dominates the far end of the room, shooting off the front of it—a catwalk that has to be fifty feet long and at least six feet wide. Round tables fill both sides with black tablecloths, silver place settings, towering centerpieces. But it's the shoes that catch my eye.
Every table has a different style of shoe centerpiece—stilettos, combat boots, Vans, Doc Martens-all spray-painted silver with black flowers spilling dramatically from them. On one side of the room, rows of auction tables display sports memorabilia and framed collectibles.
“What have I just walked into, Jen?”
She squeezes my arm. “Isn't it amazing?”
“Yeah, but what—” I stop. Because two meddlesome women I recognize are barreling toward me, squealing, smiling, glittering.
“Spence!” Harper launches herself at me, her arms wrapping around my neck before I can react. She's dressed entirely in black—skin-tight bodysuit, giant belt, beret, thigh-high boots—like some impossibly stylish French secret agent. She releases me only for Cricket to immediately throw her arms around me. Cricket has gone full Marilyn Monroe: white dress, a faux white fur, layers upon layers of costume diamonds, and a blonde wig.
I blink at both of them. “What are you doing here?” Then I look at my friend slowly, suspiciously. “What is this, Jen?”
She just shrugs. I scowl. Ryan’s sisters start giggling. “Oh, this is going to be fun,” Cricket says.
Before I can interrogate anyone further, Parker and Dita stroll over. I do a double take. Dita's dark hair is gone-either it's a wig or she actually cut it. It's now a sharp black pixie cut. She's wearing a silver spaghetti-strap dress paired with Doc Marten boots and a low-hanging sunflower pendant. The look shouldn't work. It absolutely does. Then there's Parker. My God. Parker has fully committed to whatever this is—leather chaps, leather vest, muir cap. Tom of Finland brought to life.
“Hey, Boss,” Dita chirps.
I bark out a laugh. “You two are quite the pair.”
Dita grins. Parker doesn't. My smile fades. He's still carrying the guilt from earlier. I sigh and shift my weight. “Parker.” His eyes lift. “I want to apologize.” His brows furrow. “The last few days have been...” I blow out a breath. “Trying.” An understatement. “My reaction had nothing to do with either of you.”
Dita immediately waves me off. “Don't stress it.” She nudges Parker. “You've never been anything but good to us. We're all allowed bad moments when we're under pressure.”
I nod. Then look back at Parker. “That shirt was hilarious.”
His eyes widen. “It was?”
“Unfortunately.” A grin starts forming on his handsome face. “Stop beating yourself up.”
He lights up. “I thought so. But… sorry for the timing.”
“Forgotten.” Then I spread my hands. “Now can someone please tell me what the hell is going on?”
As if summoned by the question, a young man in a silver tuxedo approaches. He’s one of at least twenty similarly dressed young people moving around the room. He hands each of us a booklet. “Event programs.”
Something about him looks familiar. I've definitely seen him before. Before I can place him, he's already walking away. I glance down. The front cover reads:FREE YOUR MIND.FASHION TO THRIVE. My stomach does that fluttery bullshit it’s been doing a lot of lately. Below it, in smaller text:Featuring the Debut Collection from Tyler Jackson.
My heart leaps into my throat. I look at Jen. “Please tell me what's going on.” The words come out desperate, choked.
“Sooo...” Cricket says with a mischevious smile. “That project my brother's been working on?”
My knees suddenly feel weak. No. No way. My eyes slowly lift from the program. “He...” The room blurs slightly. “He did this?”
