Page 143 of Never Kiss and Tell

Before I can, the phone rings again, the same number calling back.

“Jesus,” I grumble, snatching it off the table. “I don’t want anything,” I snap when I answer the phone, agitation willing me to throw the damned thing at the fucking wall.

“Charles Coulter,” a soft, sophisticated voice says into the receiver.

“Yeah? Who is this?”

“Well, my daughter told me you were a nice man. I’m not so sure about that now.”

I look at Dad, bewildered and he holds up his hands, confused.

“Monica Parker?”

She laughs, the sound breathier than Bailey’s, less genuine. “Truly. Now, I think you and I have to have a chat. What are your plans for this weekend?”

Bailey

Charity functions require the most work out of any of Mom and Marcus’s investments. Who would have thought a charity event would mean a bunch of wealthy aristocrats get dressed up in new, fancy clothes and stand around in a large room drinking together?

For the men, it’s simple. New tux, comb the hair, shine the shoes. For women — a whole day, sometimes two days, of preparation takes place to make yourself the most breathtakingly beautiful woman in the room.

Gag.

Let’s not forget to mention the small talk. The mingling. The smiling — God, the smiling. I smile until my face feels like it will crack, plastering my bestyes, I’m approachablelook on my face.

Savannah loves any kind of event. The most elegant of the sisters — even donning her black lipstick — she makes it look so easy. Mila typically finds her friends andswoons over whatever boy she’s in love with this week.

Then, there’s me.

Up until this year, I’ve been forced to follow Drew from group to group and mingle idly while he talks cases and investments. This year, I’ll be flying solo, as Mason is never forced to go to these events like us girls are. I envy him.

The nicest part about getting ready for the event is getting mani-pedi’s with Savannah the afternoon before. Mila opted out, choosing to go with her friends this year, instead.

Santelli’s is the one and only place Carpenter women go to prepare for any function — us and half the city. It’s almost impossible to get an appointment, but somehow, we always seem to.

Savannah and I sit in the pedicure chairs soaking, while she reads a magazine and eats the complimentary chocolates they always hand out. I abstain, guilty from all the B&J’s I’ve consumed in the last week.

“Will Spike be coming tonight?”

She drops the magazine down and rolls her eyes at the ceiling. “I broke up with him. He was boring.”

I scoff, chuckling. “What isn’t boring to you?”

She eyes me, raising one delicate eyebrow. Her cheeks flame, like she’s thought of something, but she quickly replaces it with a cool mask of indifference. “Men are boring.”

“Okay . . . so, do you like a girl, then?”

“No. I just don’t have time. If you had been here, you would have known I got the main Sugar Plum Fairy in the Nutcracker.”

I gasp, lightly swatting her arm. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

She tries to fight a smile, but she loses. “You’ve been too busy moping around. And don’t even get me started on your cave of despair.”

“I cleaned it up,” I argue, embarrassed. “I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t tell me. I was just feeling sorry for myself.”

She puts the magazine down on the stand next to her and watches me, searching my face. “Are you okay?”

I nod, finally able to tell the truth. “I am.”

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