Page 63 of The Billionaire's Promise

"He's fine. Aiden has him in the backyard, trying to wear him out with the tennis ball."

"That won’t take long,” I said. Before she could say anything, I went on. "I don't want to talk, Charlie. No offense."

"I'm not going to make you talk about my shithead cousin. Promise. I was only calling to see what you're going to do about the show tomorrow."

The show. Vance's show at Sloane's gallery. I'd completely forgotten it was the next day. Crap. I would rather be coated in honey and strapped to the top of a fire ant hill than go to that show.

"I'm not going to the show," I said.

"Maggie, you have to go to the show. You're responsible for setting it up."

"I am not. It's mostly Sloane's work. It's her gallery."

"You know what I mean. You've been working on this for six months. You can't stay home. And you can't spend the rest of your life hiding out."

"I know that," I snapped. "But can't I have a few goddamn days to wallow before I have to get out there and act like a human being again?"

"No," Charlie said. "If it weren't for the show, then I'd say sure. I’d tell you to pack a few bikinis, go on vacation, and suck back pretty drinks with umbrellas in them until you can't remember his name anymore. But if you don't go to that show tomorrow, every single person you know is going to be talking about it. Do you want them feeling sorry for you?"

"I don't care what those people think," I said.

I didn't.

Okay, I kind of did. I didn't want to be the sad-sack reject who got dumped by her fiancée and then was stupid enough to sleep with her boss. Not that Vance was my boss in the traditional sense, but still. Missing the show would make me look sad and pathetic. Just because Ifeltsad and pathetic didn't mean the entire world had to know about it.

Reading my mind, Charlie said, "I know you don't care what they think, but you're going to regret it if you don't go. Here's what we’re going to do. I'm going to pick you up tomorrow. I'm going to bring you something to wear, and I'll help you with your hair and makeup. You're going to look un-freaking-believable. We're going to sweep in, dazzle everyone, and then disappear. You only have to hold it together for an hour. We'll show everybody how fabulous you are and get out."

I could do that. Especially if Charlie was with me. I could absolutely hold it together for an hour.

"I love you, Charlie," I said. "You're the best."

"I know," she said. "Are you going to tell me where you are yet?"

"Nope," I answered. "Text me when you're ready to leave tomorrow. I'll tell you then."

"You don't trust me?" She asked with a smile I could hear over the phone.

"Nope," I said again. This time, she laughed out loud. "Probably a good call. I'll text you tomorrow afternoon. Try to get some sleep. You don't want circles under your eyes tomorrow."

I hung up and tossed the phone on the bedside table. Charlie really was a good friend. The best. I dreaded the idea of going to the show. I hadn't decided if I was going back to work for Vance. Just then, with my chest hollow, my stomach queasy, and my cheeks scratchy with dried tears, it seemed impossible.

Curled under the covers of my hotel bed, the flash of explosions and gunfire on the TV reflecting in the plate glass window across the room, I decided I wasn't going to think about the future for the next twelve hours. I was going to watch TV, eat room service, and hide from life until I was forced to get out there and show everyone that I was just fine. Even if it was a big fat lie.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

MAGNOLIA

"Sit still, Maggie. You're going to fidget yourself right out of the car," Charlie said, giving me the side-eye.

"I'm not fidgeting," I lied.

"I should have made you drink the third glass of wine," she said, merging into traffic.

She'd shown up at my hotel room a few hours before, carrying enough luggage to move in. Twenty minutes later, she had me sitting at the desk, a glass of wine in my hand, as she painstakingly curled my long, thick hair.

Charlotte usually wore her own hair in some variation of a chignon, but when she felt like it, she could be a hair genius. A little product and her curling iron transformed my hair into a wild mass of loose curls that tumbled over my shoulders and down my back.

She'd pulled strands from the front, twisting them and pinning them up, framing my face and lending elegance to the curls. It was almost too much, but the dress she'd chosen for me was plain, almost stark in design, and the extravagant hair balanced it out.