Page 2 of The Party Plot

“Yeah.” Laurel forced himself to smile. “Jetlag.”

“HowwasBelgium?”

“Great,” he said. “Cold.”

“And how’s your father?”

“Good, good.” Ancient, good-natured, obscenely rich. Rattling around in his estate, laughing at his own obscure jokes in French. Laurel’s dad was a baron, which was probably why Denise had married him, and he was remarkably easygoing and didn’t speak a lot of English, which was probably why they had stayed married for eight years, getting divorced when Laurel was three. Laurel could barely communicate with his dad, and he’d really only gotten to know him recently, as an adult. But he liked the guy.

“You’ll have to tell me everything,” his mother said, in a way that suggested the complete opposite. Seeming to notice Chip for the first time, she exclaimed, “Oh, Chip! I’m so glad you could make it. How’s the practice?”

Laurel stared into space while his mother and Chip talked, willing the buzzing in his head to go away. It was too bright out, the sunlight searing and inescapable, and his teeth, when he ran his tongue across them, tasted like artificial sweetener and something fouler. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Chip was complimenting the decorations, and Denise had Laurel by the arm, saying, “Oh, thank you, but I can’t take responsibility for it. This was all Casey’s brain child. You’ll have to meet him, he’s just fabulous. And you must come talk to the girls, Laurel. They all can’t wait to see you again.”

It was the last thing he wanted, to be paraded around in front of the “girls”, his mother’s society friends who had all left girlhood behind eons ago, trying to brush off their mentions of eligible young daughters and nieces. And he was even less interested in meeting the poor, beleaguered party planner. God, he should have woken Melody up before leaving and seen if she had any Xanax, because the pup-mosa had made everything worse, and he could feel his stomach churning, a slick, cold layer of sweat gathering on the back of his neck.

Laurel focused on his feet as his mother pulled him across the yard. He could feel the sun beating down on his scalp, even through the thick mass of his hair. The afternoon bugs had come out, flies and midges droning in his ears. His teeth were on edge as his mother presented him to Meredith, her most current best friend and the owner of the other half of the dog couple. He had met almost everyone before, grown up with them, but the faces were a blur. A sea of big hats and big smiles and even bigger hair surrounded him, muslin and crepe and floral mumus. There were too many people here, so many that Laurel felt like he was drowning, and he cast around for an excuse, a way out the crowd. Someone caught his eye: a tall, slender figure over by the marital arch, readjusting a streamer of ribbon. An achingly familiar shock of bleach-blond hair.

It couldn’t be. He was seeing things. The heat was getting to him, and he was still all messed up from last night—

“Oh, there he is!” Laurel’s mother cried, clapping her hands. The man turned, and Laurel forgot how to breathe for a second. “Laurel, meet Casey Bright, the genius behind this whole operation.”

But he didn’t need to meet Casey Bright. Laurel was very, very familiar with every inch of Casey Bright, and if he’d still been holding a glass, he would have dropped it, or maybe fainted dead away like a true southern belle, because the last time he’d been face-to-face with this man had been three months ago, and they’d been kissing in the hot tub attached to his suite in Vegas, with the neon city sprawling out beneath them and dawn starting to creep into the sky.

You look like you could ruin my life, Laurel had said, sidling up to him at the bar.

The mystery man—Casey’s—dark gaze flicking over him, amusement and heat simmering under the surface.Looking at you? I think I might want to.

Laurel forced himself back to the present, clearing his throat. Casey was only a couple of inches taller than him, but right now it could have been miles. He looked down at Laurel, face unreadable, just as it had been before. Something in his eyes spoke of disdain, or desire, or both.

Laurel held out a hand, hoping his palm wasn’t too sweaty. “Nice to meet you,” he said.

*

The ceremony passed in a blur. Laurel was vaguely aware of the damp hair curling at his temples, the white wicker chair digging into his thighs. A fan shaped like a paw was dangling from his fingers; he wasn’t sure who’d given it to him. Blood was roaring in his ears, and the world had a white-hot glare to it, like an overexposed photograph, the edges of everything indistinct. A camera shutter was going off incessantly. Jasper seemed more interested in eating floral arrangements than in getting married, and the string quartet had circled back throughWho Let the Dogs Outa second time and were now playingI Want to Be Your Dog, which was an odd choice for any kind of wedding and made Laurel have to wipe his hands off on his shirtfront as an impression flashed in his head, the memory of the rough hotel carpet against his bare knees—

A shock of lust lurched through his stomach. The soles of his feet were tingling.

God, this was embarrassing.

Why in the fuck was Casey Bright working for his mom? They hadn’t shared professions, or even names, had agreed to keep everything anonymous, but just the same, he’d gotten the impression that Casey wasn’t the kind of person who compromised, let alone allowed himself to be bossed around or made a spectacle of. So why was he here, wrangling dogs for photos and readjusting the draperies and making sure everything was just so? Why was he making nice with the girls, letting them squeeze his arm and ruffle his hair and manhandle him, his head cocked, an easy smile across his face, his cream suit and pastel tie perfectly complementing his tan skin? Why was someone so effortlessly elegant at an event as tacky as a dog wedding, let alone spearheading it? Laurel felt like a big puddle of sweat and nervous twitches, watching him, and he looked away too late, heat flooding his face as he realized that Casey had noticed him staring.

He could feel Casey’s gaze sliding down his cheek, cool and deliberate as a caress.

They’d shaken hands. Casey had given no indication that they knew each other. Laurel couldn’t remember what he had said. Some dumb words, most likely; he’d always been good at smiling and nodding and saying dumb words.

And he was good at hiding things, too. You had to be, in a place where appearances mattered so much. But his heart was fluttering like a trapped bird, and he was having a hard time brushing this off. If he was being honest with himself, Casey had felt—significant. In a way that he knew he wouldn’t forget. In a way that was safe, because he could tuck the memory away and take it out for special occasions and compare every other guy to it and conveniently find them lacking.

Meeting him again had torpedoed all of that.

Laurel had to talk to him. Maybe if he talked to him, Casey wouldn’t seem so wonderful anymore. Maybe whatever spell he’d cast on him would be lifted. It was worth a try, anyway.

He got up, straightening his collar, and looked around for another drink.

*

His name hadn’t always been Casey Bright, but it was now, and would be for as long as he needed it to. Names didn’t really matter to the people he tended to work for—at least, not the names of their staff. What mattered was the persona, and the experience it sold. The perfect party planner. Friendly, non-threatening. An expert and an accessory. Glamorous, but not in a way that would upstage anyone. A shoulder to cry on and an ear to gossip into. (Never mind that Denise’s mean-spirited gossip left a bad taste in his mouth, and her tears meant nothing to him.)

Casey had been selling it flawlessly. Until this afternoon.

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