Page 51 of Mexico Can Choke On It
“Mr. Sterling.” The man’s voice carries generations of British refinement. “Allow me to officially welcome you to Casa Cashmere.”
The gentleman before us could’ve stepped out of a PBS historical drama. Silver hair parted like it was combed with a ruler, steel-blue eyes that miss nothing, dressed in a crisp, charcoal morning coat with tails. His pocket square forms precise triangular points, and his black shoes gleam like they’ve never met a speck of dust. He looks so frozen in time, he could moonlight as a haunted portrait.
“I am Nigel Featherwick, estate manager and personal butler to Miss Muffy Von Cashmere II.” He executes a flawless bow. “Should you require anything—anything at all—please do not hesitate to contact myself or my assistant, Miss Thistlewood, who has been briefed on your caviar pairings, preferred conflict de-escalation phrases, and the angle at which your morning toast must lean upon the plate.”
“No wonder thebutlerhas a butler," Petra whispers.
“Indeed, Miss Brinkman.” His tone remains neutral. “Miss Whitfield alerted us to your… impromptu inclusion. Lodgings have been secured, albeit in the East Wing, regrettably separated from our principal guests.”
The East Wing. Code for social quarantine.
“Miss Brinkman will stay in the suite adjacent to mine. She’s my… companion.”
Wonderful. Now I’ve actually implied she is my mistress.
“Of course, Mr. Sterling.” Nigel bows again. “I shall alert the Pillow Attendant, Bathroom Amenities Coordinator, and Room Fragrance Technician of this alteration immediately.”
We follow Nigel across the stone path that snakes through the grounds. Impeccably trimmed garden hedges line the walkway, fountains trickle nearby, and birds chirp in the canopy above as though they’re whispering gossip.
I clear my throat. “The room assignment. I meant—so you’re not wandering this palace alone. I asked you to spare me from small talk, remember?”
“Thank you,” she says with startling sincerity.
A beat passes before I add, “You’ll be more comfortable… That is, it might help if you follow my lead a little.”
“Or I could do my thing and see how ruffled Lord Britchybottom gets when I wear pajamas to dinner. Think he’d have a stroke if I asked for ketchup?”
“His name is Nigel Featherwick.”
“I stand by my version.”
As we cross the grounds, the estate’s true scale is revealed. Staff members appear and vanish like well-trained ghosts—gardeners pruning already-perfect shrubs, maids carrying fresh linens, security personnel in dark suits murmuring into earpieces. The whole operation runs with the precision of Buckingham Palace.
“Is this place a house, or did we barge headfirst into a small sovereign nation?” Petra whispers. “Do I need my passport to use the bathroom?”
A rustling draws my attention. Petra is fishing for something in her pocket—the crumpled napkin from the jet emerges, and—dearGod—she’s unwrapping contraband peanut butter cookies like we’re in a prison yard.
“Are you seriously eating?”
“What? You want one? They’re only slightly pocket-warmed and I’m guessing sixty percent cookie and forty percent lint.”
My internal panic meter shifts from yellow to flashing red. The path beneath my Italian loafers suddenly feels as though I’m walking on quicksand.
I’ve made a catastrophic miscalculation.
I’ve brought Petra “Chaos” Brinkman into the most etiquette-obsessed environment on the planet without providing a single word of preparation. No crash course in silverware hierarchy. No primer on acceptable conversation topics. Not even basic instructions like “don’t eat cookies while walking through a billionaire’s estate like it’s a mall food court.”
It’s as if I handed a tornado a crate full of scissors and aimed it at a paper factory.
Before Nigel’s eagle eyes can spot this breach of decorum, I snatch the cookie bundle and hastily rewrap them. “Put these away,” I hiss.
“Jeez, don’t have an aneurysm.” She tucks the bundle back into her pocket with a dramatic eye roll. “I forgot rich people onlypretendto eat. Lucky for you, poverty’s made me excellent at intermittent fasting.”
My pulse hammers in my ears. Gavin will never forgive me if I allow his sister to become social cannon fodder. My mother will disown me. Every Sterling in history is probably rolling in their monogrammed mausoleums at my recklessness.
In approximately thirty seconds, we’ll walk into a room filled with people who consider jaywalking a capital offense—and I’ve brought someone who teases customers with her nipples for tips.
“Take my arm,” I command rather than offer, extending my elbow. “Do not make a move again without consulting me first. I’d prefer not to have any more surprises.”
