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My head jerks around.
Damn. He’s right.
Marko smiles and lifts his bottle to his lips. He seems to enjoy watching me shift in the sand as my brain races through a game of connect the dots.
It’s not only the fact that her attention will be elsewhere. That she might meet someone. Someone she likes, who’s stable and, you know, a full-time New York resident. Those are all killer reasons that have my inner caveman howling with concern.
But, if I’m honest with myself, there’s one particular desire drowning out all the others.
I want to see her in that dress.
I sent it to her.
Fuck. I designed the damn thing.
I’ve designed a dress in each of my mother’s collections as far back as I can remember. My first drawing for her was in blue crayon. It’s our thing. No one knows but us, and it’s a fun tradition, even if I don’t want to run the company.
The truth is, I created the emerald dress with Katherine in mind. Hell, in the sketch I sent to my mother, the model had flaming golden red hair, just like my Wildfire.
My chest tightens.
My Wildfire.
“You should go,” Marko says.
I lift my bottle. It’s half full. “Not done yet.”
“To the auction,” he clarifies.
Oh.
“When is it?”
I fish out my phone and scroll through my texts. No luck there. My thumb jabs the web browser, and I try to remember the name of the event. A few seconds and one Google search later, my blood freezes in my veins.
“Tomorrow.”
The sleek countdown timer shows twenty-three hours and some odd minutes. I tilt the screen so Marko can see.
“What are you waiting for?”
2
KATHERINE / KINGSTON
Katherine
I sink onto a barstool at the kitchen counter. This is no time for a pity party. Either I go to the event and participate in the auction, or I call the coordinator back and cancel.
Ordinarily, I wouldn’t give this more than thirty seconds of my time. After all, that’s the credo that’s been drummed into me for years. Decisive action. If you can’t take action immediately, stop fretting. Get to work. Delegate. Move forward.
I take a fortifying sip from my glass and navigate to the contacts in my phone app, stabbing at my mother’s name with my thumb.
As it rings, I stalk across the sleek wood floor, march into my bedroom, and flip on the light switch in my closet. Hanging on a brass hook at the other end is the emerald green dress Kingston sent over from his mother’s latest collection. I never planned to put it on such a public display.
It covers one shoulder with lots of lovely draping and makes my coloring look good. To me, anyway. Mother hates my red hair.
It’s not my fault. She passed the ginger gene down from her side of the family. Or so she says.
