Page 62 of Filthy Rich

The birthday girl squawks, claps her hands to her face and lapses into a stunned silence while we launch into a rousing rendition of the birthday song.

“Oh my goodness.” She beams with joy as we finish up with a round of whooping and clapping. “Oh my goodness. This is all for me?”

“Who else?” I say, relieved that we managed to pull the whole thing off.

“Did you plan all this, Tam?” she asks, teary again. But they’re the joyous kind this time, thank God.

“With a lot of help from Lucien and your friends.”

“Oh, you sweet girl,” she says, pulling me in for a big smack on the cheek and the bear hug of my life. “You sweet, sweet girl.”

“What about us?” cries Mrs. Johnson, who’s surrounded by the other ladies.

“You girls have a lot of explaining to do.” Mrs. Hooper thrusts me aside and rounds on her friends with a fake glower. “I thought you were all laid up in bed from bad clams! Now here you are, right as rain.”

“Every successful surprise party requires a few white lies,” says Mrs. Webster with a triumphant grin.

“That was the saddest, loneliest birthday dinner of my life,” says Mrs. Hooper, diving in for a round of hugs. “If it weren’t for Tam, here, I’d have thrown myself overboard.”

I watch fondly as she accepts greetings and well wishes from everyone, but it doesn’t take long for my thoughts to turn to Lucien, who’s not here yet. I’ve ignored several texts from him since we got back this afternoon. I’m too proud to let him see how shaken I am by his response to his late wife’s body double. Clearly, he’s not over Ravenna. Hell, I’d go so far as to say he’s still in love with her. Why else would he have such a violent reaction to her doppelgänger?

I rub my belly, telling myself that it aches from too much pasta at dinner rather than incipient heartbreak. I have no right to feel any way at all about Lucien’s feelings toward Ravenna. As I keep reminding myself in the hopes that I’ll eventually believe it, the two of us are having a fun summer fling that most likely ends with the cruise in a couple of days. His feelings about his past are absolutely irrelevant to me.

If only my roiling gut would get the memo.

“And who have we here?” comes Mrs. Hooper’s voice over the chattering crowd and upbeat music as a new person walks in and joins the fray. “Tamsyn, where are you? Look. It’s Lucien Winter bringing birthday greetings.”

“I see that,” I say, my polite social smile fixed in place as I head over. Juniper beats me to the punch, racing over to Lucien and sitting worshipfully at his feet before I get there.

“These are for you,” Lucien says, presenting Mrs. Hooper with an elaborate bouquet—of pink roses, orchids and God knows what other flowers—that looks as though it cost as much as the first rent payment on my new apartment. Then he glances over at the table, which is filled with so many birthday bouquets that it looks as though it’s the wing of a greenhouse. “I see everyone else had the same idea.”

“Nonsense, Lucien.” She hands the bouquet off to one of her passing friends, who makes a place of honor for it right in the middle. “Pink roses are my favorites. So glad you could make it. And thank you for helping Tamsyn pull off this wonderful surprise.”

“My pleasure.” His attention shifts to me for the first time. “Tamsyn.”

For once, he doesn’t seem supremely confident. No sign of his normal arrogance. There’s something vaguely deflated about him tonight, almost…vulnerable.

It touches me, no matter how much I wish it didn’t.

“Lucien.”

“Well, don’t just stand there mooning over each other, lovebirds,” Mrs. Hooper says, and her twangy voice has never been quite this grating. “Tamsyn, go get him a drink. He looks like he needs it.”

With that, she turns to greet another guest, leaving me with no choice but to lead Lucien over to the bar and pour him a scotch.

“Why have you been ignoring my texts?” he says as soon as we’re alone.

“I’ve been busy,” I say, shrugging and keeping my focus on his drink.

“You’re avoiding me.”

“No, I’m not,” I say, trying to look bewildered by the suggestion.

“Great. So I’ll see you in my cabin later? Like always?”

That brings me up short. I hesitate as I pass him his glass, unwilling to make a scene but knowing he’s unlikely to take kindly to any refusals.

“I’m kinda tired. I think I’ll sleep in my own bed tonight.”

---