Page 23

“Thank you,” Darcy said, managing a small smile. “You were right.”

Jeremy gave her an appreciative onceover. “Damn.”

“Jeremy,” I warned. “She’s a client.”

He held up his hands. “What? I’m complimenting the dress.”

The introductions continued, each family member warm and welcoming in their own way. But I could see Darcy growing more overwhelmed by the second. She was drowning in Blackwell hospitality and didn’t know how to swim.

I caught her eye and jerked my head toward the auction tables. She excused herself from the conversation and followed me away from the crowd.

“You okay?” I asked when we were out of earshot.

“Fine.”

“You look like you’re about to bolt.”

“I’m not going to bolt,” she said, though her eyes darted toward the exit like she was calculating how fast she could make it in the heels she wore.

“Look,” I said, stepping in front of her so she had to focus on me. “I know this isn’t comfortable for you. I get it. But you need to loosen up.”

She scowled. “Stop telling me how to act. I’m not a child.”

“You’re wound tighter than a spring. This is a party, not a board meeting. You’re allowed to relax.”

“I am relaxed.”

“Do you ever smile?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I smile plenty.”

“When? Give me an example.”

“I’m not going to smile on demand.”

“See? That right there. That’s the problem.” I gestured at her face. “You look like you’re about to fire someone. People are watching you. They’re taking photos. They’re forming opinions. And right now, the opinion they’re forming is that the ice queen showed up to a charity event and couldn’t be bothered to pretend she cares.”

Something flashed in her eyes. Hurt, maybe. Or anger. I couldn’t tell. I didn’t want to insult her or hurt her feelings, but I had a job to do. And I had a feeling she was the kind of woman who appreciated bluntness. This was not a woman that had time for bullshit.

“I do care,” she said quietly.

“Then show it.” I softened my tone. “Look, I’m not trying to be an ass. I’m trying to help. But you’re making this harder than it needs to be.”

She took a breath, her shoulders dropping slightly. “Fine. What do you want me to do?”

“Let’s go look at the auction items,” I said. “Find something you actually like. Bid on it. Let people see you enjoying yourself.”

“Fine.”

We walked toward the auction tables. The items were spread out along the far wall, each one with a description card and a bid sheet.

There were vintage movie posters donated by my parents and some of their Hollywood friends. Several original prints from films my mother had starred in. A signed guitar from a famous rock band. Gift certificates to high-end restaurants. Spa packages. A weekend at a luxury resort. And a ridiculous amount of B Well products from Hollis’s wellness brand. The kind of stuff that rich people bought to feel good about themselves.

“Bid on some things,” I said, gesturing to the tables in general.

“Oh, what about that?”

I looked at the table she gestured at and saw an antique typewriter. I looked at her, making sure I was looking at the same thing. “The typewriter?”