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But my twenty-fifth birthday is months away, so I’ll have to wait for that inheritance.
I blow out a sigh and text my best friend.
Katherine: remind me that I don’t look good in orange.
Striding across the plush carpet, I pull a bottle of my favorite chardonnay from the refrigerator and pour myself a glass.
The golden liquid calms some of the annoyance raging in my blood. But seriously, I told her I didn’t want to do the auction.
That should have been the end of it.
No means no.
I pour a bit more from the bottle, mesmerized by the ripples. It’s a big glass, but I’m going to need it for this conversation.
Maybe a bit more won’t hurt.
Swapping my phone for the wineglass, I head for the balcony.
Car horns and the rumble of a motorcycle engine drift up to me. A breeze ruffles my hair.
“Poor little rich girl,” I murmur to the wind.
I chug the chardonnay like I’m going into battle and need the courage.
A fat raindrop splatters against my upturned cheek, and I welcome the storm. If only I could wash away my bad mood as easily as the rain washes the grime from the streets below.
One by one, droplets fall, whacking the cement around me and bringing that rich humidity and a cleansing balm that sends people scurrying for doorways.
When my shirt is lightly polka-dotted with rain, I head back inside.
My phone rests on the kitchen island, spotlighted by the pendants overhead. I stare at it as I pour myself another round. My movements are loose now, thanks to an empty stomach and the first glass of vino.
I swear my phone is daring me. Call her.
Another sip.
I’m exhausted.
Mentally taxed and tired of fighting with her.
The screen lights up and a notification bubble shows I have a new text. My lips curve up a fraction. I don’t know when he sleeps.
Kingston: uh oh. what’d cruella do now?
I fully expected him to remind me that orange would totally clash with my hair color, but I should have predicted that, as usual, he’s on my wavelength. That he would tap into the anxiety and annoyance buzzing through me, even if he’s half a world away.
His nickname for my mom earns a grin, and I type back immediately.
Katherine: why are you awake? What time is it there?
Kingston: sun’ll be up in a few hours.
Katherine: didn’t mean to wake you.
He doesn’t bother responding to that, though I can read his mind from across the Atlantic Ocean. That’s what friends are for. He’s said it to me often enough.
Kingston: so what’d she do?
