Page 39 of Love Me Tomorrow

And then she’s gone, disappearing into the crowd of black tuxedoes and jewel-toned ballgowns.

My feet, strapped into a pair of glittery silver stilettos, remain glued to the floor.

I’ve spent a lifetime attending events just like this one, where the conversations stay unapologetically shallow and the drinks are poured heavier as the evening wears on (all the better to up those bids, of course).

For years, I’ve played the part expected of me.

While Dad talked the ear off of some wealthy ERRG patron, and Mom hovered nearby, chatting to a woman from church, I’ve always held down the fort. In any other city, a family like mine would be caterers to this event and nothing more. In New Orleans, the Roses have not only provided the food for the mayor’s ball, but we’re also a few of the more popular guests.

Usually, I’d pack up my feelings and get on with the flirting and the chatting and the catching up.

Usually, but not tonight.

Because it’s not every day that America’s nastiest tabloid reporter calls you a “wet blanket” and sparks a discussion the likes of which you’ve never seen on social media. And I’ve seen alotsince agreeing to the role ofPut A Ring On It’s first bachelorette.

Finally, my feet get a move on.

With my head held high, I ignore the not-so-quiet commentary that has stalked me like the worst kind of stage-five clinger since I arrived earlier tonight:

“Did you see thatCelebrity Tea Presentsarticle? Ouch.”

“Jeez, evenEntertainment Tonightpicked the story up. What’s next? An appearance onThe Graham Norton Show? I swear to God, I’m so tired of hearing about the Roses. Their duck confit is delicious though.”

“Honestly, I always thought shewasa little boring. A little too perfect, not enough substance—know what I mean?”

A little boring.

A little too perfect.

Not enough substance.

I almost laugh out loud. Is there anything theydon’tthink they know about me? These are people who have existed on the periphery of my life for years. I went to school with their daughters, their nieces. I’m not some stranger they’re gossiping about. And, so yeah, maybe I do keep my relationships with them at surface level but that has more to do with them than it does with me—I can play nice with the best of them, but I don’t play nice with assholes.

Guess I do have a little too much of the Rose blood in me for that.

With a sharp retort hot on my tongue, I whip around, fully prepared to give them a piece of my mind, only to be cut off by a server dressed in a sleek, black tux. “Wine?” he asks without inflection, his gaze resting somewhere above my head, a black tray balanced on one hand.

“You know what? I think I will.” I pluck a glass off the tray, then go back for a second. His bushy brows don’t even twitch as he nods curtly before drifting off to another partygoer.

How boring can a girl be when she’s double-fisting wine, dressed to the nines in a sapphire gown, and planning to do major damage to her checkbook, all in the name of charity?

Boring, schmoring.

I won’t apologize to Mr.Celebrity Tea Presents,whoever the hell he really is, just because he thinks I should have spread my legs more, during filming, for his and America’s entertainment. That isn’t me. It willneverbe me. I’d rather be labeled as a total snooze-fest than screw twenty-six men just to prove a point. At least my self-respect is still intact.

Blood piping hot, I toss back some wine from glass number one, then turn my back on jerk central over there. They aren’t worth even a second of my night.

For what has to be the hundredth time since I’ve returned to New Orleans, I find myself wishing Amelie was by my side. I know Europe is doing her good right now and I know she has no immediate plans to come back to the States, but still. My younger sister knows how to turn these dull parties on their head, even if it comes at the cost of making other people uncomfortable.

Pretty sure no one has ever accused Amelie Rose of being boringortoo perfect.

As I sidle up to the auction table, I drink from glass number two because I’m not cruel. Don’t want it feeling left out or neglected, of course.

I peer down at the items that have been staged for viewing.

There’s an autographed Drew Brees football. Next to it are a pair of intricate diamond earrings from a popular jeweler on Magazine Street. I step to the right, my gaze roaming the table and taking note of the various pieces: a delicate sculpture with copper-painted flowers, a pair of tickets to Machu Picchu with an all-inclusive stay near the world heritage site, an abstract-style painting that looks like it’s been done by a kindergartner who devoured way too much sugar.

Beside each item is a placard listing its value, the person who donated it, as well as its specific auction number so that bids can be placed on the corresponding app created for tonight’s event.

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