Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
“I like a lot.” I clear the gravel from my throat. “How ‘bout me?”
She scrutinizes me from head to toe. Completely unnecessary considering she’s the one who chose every scrap of fabric on my body, from the Tom Ford shoes to the crisp black suit jacket to the navy-blue dress shirt with only the top button undone. Summer said that as hot as my chest tattoo is, she doesn’t want it peeking out tonight. Apparently, she’s been to this leukemia fundraiser before (why am I not surprised?), and she warned me that the crowd will consist of a lot of old people with very deep pockets—and very closed minds.
“You look sharp, babe. Super professional. Oh, and sexy.”
I laugh. “Perfect. Sexy is what I’m going for. I plan on sleeping with Kamal Jain to get the job.”
“Let me know how that works out for you.”
The penthouse has an elevator requiring a key that only Summer’s family has access to. As we ride it downstairs, she takes her phone out of her silver clutch and opens Instagram. “Let’s take a selfie,” she announces, and the next thing I know she’s pulling me into frame and snapping a dozen photos of us.
“You’re the worst,” I tell her, because she knows I hate selfies.
She beams at me. “I think what you mean is, I’m the best.”
I snort. “My bad. That’s exactly what I meant.”
We reach the lobby. Summer’s heels click on the marble floor as she glides across it. The Heyward Plaza is hands down the fanciest hotel I’ve ever seen. I can’t fathom that Summer might inherit it one day.
She smiles and waves at the concierge. “Evening, Thomas.”
The white-haired man gives her a warm smile in return. “Evening, Miss Summer. Try not to cause too much trouble tonight, will you?”
I snicker under my breath.
“Thomas has worked here for more than twenty years,” she explains as we enter another hallway that holds another elevator bank.
“Really?”
She nods. “I was a baby when he got hired, so he pretty much watched me grow up.”
“Ah. So he’s had a front-row seat to all your troublemaking.”
“Oh yeah. My Greenwich friends and I used to sneak into the city and come to the hotel, and I thought I was bribing him to keep quiet by slipping him hundreds.” She makes an outraged face. “And then I found out he was double-crossing me.”
I snort. “Ratted you out to the parents, huh?”
“Every single time. But they never said a word. I didn’t realize they knew about it until years later, after I left for college. My parents are really cool,” she admits. “If I wanted to cut a day of school to go shopping with my friends, they didn’t mind as long as I was safe and didn’t make it a habit.”
The elevator shows up, and we walk inside. Summer presses the button for the “Heather Ballroom.” There are four other ballrooms on the list, all named after flowers. The Lily, the Rose, the Heather, and the Dahlia. Fancy.
The doors ding open, and we’re met by a crescendo of noise—a symphony of glass clinking, high heels clacking on hardwood, the hum of conversation, laughter.
Summer links her arm through mine as we approach the massive arched doorway of the ballroom. Beyond it, I see elegantly dressed people milling around in an elegantly decorated room. The stage is set up for a live band, but they’re not playing at the moment. Round tables with pristine tablecloths and ornate centerpieces are scattered on either side of the shiny dance floor. I don’t see anyone eating actual meals, but the waiters thread their way through the crowd carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres.
This totally isn’t my scene. A sea of gowns and tuxedos swells before me, fingers and earlobes and wrists sparkling and gleaming like the front window of a lighting store. And I thought Summer’s diamond hairclip was flashy. I gape as I spot a middle-aged woman wearing ruby earrings that are so enormous, her earlobes are actually stretching due to their heft.
“Is that him?” Summer whispers in my ear.
“Yup.” I’m not surprised that she’s picked Kamal out of the crowd. Despite his small stature, he’s got a big personality.
He holds court across the room near the largest of the three bars in the ballroom. Wild hand gestures and animated facial expressions accompany whatever long-winded anecdote he’s regaling his audience with.
We stand there watching as his half-dozen admirers all burst into laughter. “Must be a great story,” she remarks. “Or it’s boring as fuck, and they’re just sucking up to him because he’s a gazilliotrillionaire.”
I laugh. My girl has a way with words. Especially ones she makes up. “Could go either way.”
“Well, let’s say hello. He’s the reason you’re here, right?”
“Right.”
Anxiety tickles my stomach as we approach the bar. The second he notices me, Kamal breaks off midsentence, his expression lighting up. He slaps the arm of the old dude beside him and says, “Gonna have to excuse me, brother. My guest has arrived.” He disengages from the group and strides toward me. “You made it!”