Page 21 of SNOB

“What worked?” My eyes shift between Beau and Hannah.

Squeeeak.

Beau stifles a laugh next to me, one hand on his brush, the other over his mouth.

Squeeeak.

Some students near Hannah giggle before her chair topples over and she’s out of her seat. Hannah bolts for the door, her hand on her stomach.

Slam!

The door swings shut, finally leaving me in a Hannah-less classroom. The tightness in my chest subsides.

“Thank you, Laduree,” Beau says. “She won’t be back to class.”

“Beau, what did you do?” I ask.

“Those Ladu-laxatives were for Mommy. She made me third wheel her date with the guy from that Marvel movie… again.”

“Those were for your mom?”

He smiles. “Happy to use them for a better cause than angst.” Or psychosis. Is insanity is a prerequisite for this place? The smile taking over my face tells me I might just fit that requirement.

As we paint, Beau rambles about his mom. She starred in a teen movie in the early 2000s and never got over being cast-typed as The Milf. “That’s why I got the job at Sun House,” he says. “I obviously don’t need the money but Mommy guilt-tripped me about having it easy. Between you, me and all of Paradise Hill, she just wants access to the town’s bachelors.”

“Sun House won’t even look at me,” I remind him. “I applied for your job.”

“You want it?”

“Your job?”

“After careful consideration, I’m not planning on making my shifts.” His brush flows across his canvas with ease. “My mom can take away the Porsche. I still have the Rover.”

Blinking at Beau, I can’t tell if he’s joking. “You heard me say they won’t look at me, right?”

“Come with me after classes.” He turns to me with a smile so I wide I think he’s inhaled too much paint. “I’ll get you sorted. But first…” His hand reaches towards my face, a strand of blue hair falling between his fingers. “We need to do something about this.”

Walking into Sun House with Beau is a contrast to walking in on my own. But something tells me it’s not just because the son of Pamela Laval is on my arm.

Beau swapped my tee and cutoffs for a black pantsuit with a blazer. Cucinelli, whatever that means. There’s no way I could afford this otherwise. It fits my curvy frame, hugging my body better than I thought it would sitting on the rack. I feel great in this, the fabric way softer than my usual thrift finds. Beau’s stylist, yeah I said stylist, pulled my hair into a poofy low ponytail. Sleek. Sophisticated. Far from The Valley. Greta’s scrunchie sits on my wrist for safekeeping.

People smile when I pass them on the way to the lounge. No one twists a face or looks down at me, they all act like I’m meant to be here. Funny what an outfit can do to a gal.

“Beau? Where on earth have you been?” The woman meant to interview me hurries over to us in a white blouse as silky as her skin. She wears a white pleated skirt to match. She stalls, looking me over before she actually acknowledges my existence. “Hello.” Her eyes wander my appearance before she lowers her frames. “Have we met before?”

“Charlotte, this is Ember, my replacement.” His hand lands on the small of my back, pushing me forward.

“Ember.” Charlotte drags out my name as if she’s trying to place it. Then she shrugs. “Beats me.” She tugs at my blazer. “Cucinelli. Brava.”

“We’re good?” Beau asks.

“Well, since you dropped the ball, I need the help. Can you start right away?” She looks at her smartwatch. “In five minutes?”

A smile spreads across my face. A win. I needed this. “Absolutely.”

“Great, take the podium at the front,” Charlotte directs.

Wait. “The front front?”

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