Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
Delta and I chuckle when not one but both men positioned at the bottom steps—security disguised as the welcoming committee—lift their hands, dying for a chance to test the smoothness of her skin against theirs.
Our girl is happy to oblige, of course, making direct eye contact with both and lifting her arms slightly so their fingers brush and guide along her forearms, purring her thanks and even managing a hint of a blush along her high cheekbones.
With the grace of an angel, she climbs the steps outside of the Cia Bella Century Hall, where the next set of men is ushered forward. They tip their heads as if to bow, sweeping their hands out as the doors are pulled open for her.
It’s not until she disappears inside that Sai rolls forward, looping us around the back. We’re at a complete stop for no more than five seconds, just long enough for him to place a hat on his head, glasses on his face, and a ring on his left hand. Slowly, we ease back into the line of arriving cars as if we hadn’t yet driven through.
“Two at the edge of the carpet, two at the top, and now four at the door.” Delta smooths two fingers down from her perfect middle part, making sure every piece of hair is slick straight against her scalp, her bun so tight, the almond arch of her eyes seems even more defined than normal.
I eye the men, but as the two newcomers settle into position, the other two disappear to the left. “They’re rotating.”
“That could be a problem.”
I nod but straighten as someone comes forward, opening the door when Sai doesn’t step out. “Ready?”
“Starved.”
My smirk slips free. Of course she is. She’s been locked away in the music room for a few weeks now, perfecting her fall performance for the Greyson Gala, the largest and most prestigious event of the year set to take place in six weeks’ time.
Unlike Bronx, Delta and I keep our heads pointed straight, our chins high, too high. So high, the doormen sour, their gazes not once seeking or lingering on the two spoiled socialites, especially not when not only our attitude is the polar opposite of our south-wing siren tonight but our clothing of choice as well.
Delta wears a tailored tan dress, the hem modest at the knee and sharp across the shoulder, little to no skin beyond her arms and calves showing, with flat white pumps. Mine is as equally dull, a classic ivory with half-cuff sleeves and a slight slit down the back seam, offering no more than an inch above the bend of my knee. My shoes are identical in color and two inches shorter than my staple.
We’re basic and boring and utterly forgettable.
“I’m going to burn this shade of lipstick when we get home.” My lips hardly part as I speak, but Delta’s answering hum tells me she hears and the slight brush of her fingertips along the hips of her dress says she plans to do the same with her wardrobe.
As we step into the foyer, Delta settles her gaze on a group of men conversing around a tall cocktail table and pivots with grace in their direction. They look like your standard fundraiser attendees—dime-a-dozen suits, lack of excitement, and wrists wrapped in flashy watches. Basically, someone told them they had to be here, and while they like to pretend they’re men of many decisions, they’re not. Someone said show up, so here they are, being seen and making small talk no one gives a shit about as they wait for the moment to make their donation and be on their way.
I recognize some attendees from past events. A bigwig banker and the lawyer who made this small town’s latest indiscretion disappear, to name a few, but we didn’t hop on a helicopter for an hour’s trip several towns over to be spotted by people who may or may not know who we are.
So I curve away from the familiar faces, leisurely weaving my way through the room, accepting a flute of champagne from a stone-faced brunette, her bow tie sharp and high at her collar. She continues past me, skating along the edge of each cluster of patrons.
Bringing the glass to my mouth, I tip it the slightest bit, pressing my lips along the rim as I shift a bit, giving myself a full-access view of the space.
The Cia Bella is a pretty place, the art all replicas rather than originals, the frames painted with gold rather than made of it, but the design is quite nice, even if the architect did essentially rip off one Charles Lameire with the dome-like design, sharp tunnel-like sides framed by paneled windows that sweep above as well.
Musee d’Orsay, anyone?
Out of the corner of my eye, I find Bronx where intended, three men towering over my friend’s five-four frame, her heels sleek but decisively on the shorter side tonight.