Page 44 of If Not for My Baby
When the three of them step aside and I open my eyes, I’m rewarded with the only decent part of the movie makeover moment. Lionel, Indy, and even Molly gasp in delight.
“You are smoking hot,” Molly says, approving.
“Magnificent. Beyond. I have to take some pics.” Indy is beaming. “It’s so cute, my heels, Molly’s dress—it’s like you’re our love child.”
“And I creative directed the whole thing,” Lionel adds. “Lest you forget.”
“Who sayslest?” Molly asks, opening the door, still in her bra and underwear.
“Christ, Molls.” I hear Pete sigh. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
“Yes,” she purrs.
Indy and Lionel follow suit and I finally get a look at myself in the smudged mirror.
And…they’re right. I have never looked this good in my life. The black dress hangs off me like I’m some kind of gloomy Grecian goddess. For the first time I’m grateful for my smaller chest, as the deep V accentuates my collarbone and neck. It’s sexy and a little dirty but still simple and refined. My hair and makeup are rocker-chic—also known as done in a tour bus bathroom—but my earrings and pink heels are girlish and unmistakably Indy. For the first time in longer than I can remember, a rush of confidence crackles through me.
I feel beautiful.
Fifteen
When I step out ofthe bathroom, Molly is changing into a fishnet-and-minidress combo in the middle of the front lounge. The sound of a booming party in full swing echoes as the bus doors crank open. I don’t see Halloran anywhere, and when I peek back at the suite door I’m not surprised to find it shut as usual. In my chest, something deflates. I’d wanted him to see me before we all left.
“Fucking hell, Clementine,” Grayson drawls. “Where’ve you been hiding all that?”
He is just the worst. “Thank you.” I smile, grabbing my bag.
“No,” Molly snips, sliding her foot into a platform boot. “No purse.”
“It ruins the entire look,” Lionel adds.
I frown. “My phone and wallet are in here.”
“You don’t need ’em,” Indy says. “You’ll be with us.”
Grayson puts his arm out for me to take, and I sigh, dropping my bag and taking his arm, if only to avoid snapping anankle in these shoes. Molly’s calf-length dress is a maxi one on me even in the heels. We’re only halfway down the stairs when I realize what a balancing act I’ve got ahead of me tonight.
As the bus pulls away I realize Indy was right: I’ve never seen a party like this. Forget that. I’ve never seen a house like this. A feat of modern architecture with a long and winding path through the front yard dotted with low garden lights and bushels of exotic plants. Rhett Barber—or whoever lives here when he’s touring—tends to one good-looking garden. Caterers in honest-to-God tuxes mill about with appetizers and valets manage the chaos of one shiny, double-parked sports car after another.
Grayson maneuvers us into the foyer of the house. The inside is even harder for my mind to wrap itself around: all glass and marble and high arches and low settees. Like a futuristic palace. Darkly lit, with glossy modern art on frames that span entire walls. Coffee table books the size of my torso. And in here, the party is really cooking. Hundreds of people, high cheekboned and fake-lipped. I recognize some faces but they’re moving so quickly my brain can’t process where I know them from.
I have yet anotherToto, we’re not in Kansas anymoremoment except I have no Toto, only a shaggy-haired flirt-aholic keyboard player by my side.
Grayson drags me into an even dimmer living room lit by low spotlights and a roaring granite fireplace. In here the music is pounding an EDM song Mike would’ve played for me. One where he’d make me wait for the beat to drop.Here itcomes, one more sec—The only kind of music I’ve ever listened to and felt nothing. And of course, his favorite.
I scan the elegant room for Indy and Molly but don’t see them anywhere. I reach for my phone to text them, only to remember I left it on the bus.
“Hors d’oeuvres?” a man in a bow tie says, carrying a plate of tiny cones filled with some kind of minced fish.
“I’m sorry?”
“Hors d’oeuvre, miss?”
I blink, trying to figure out what word he’s saying.
Grayson chuckles, wrapping his hand around my waist. “Clementine, it meansappetizer. God, you’re adorable.”
Even the waiter seems to find this patronizing.
