Page 88 of Enticing the Enforcer
Then something sparks.
An idea. An opportunity.
“Lila,” I interrupt before I can stop myself. “What if there’s an event I’d like to attend before the season starts?”
“An event youwantto go to?” she repeats with a hint of incredulousness. “Beforethe season starts?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
It’s obvious no one has ever asked her this before, but no one has been me. No one has had, what did Josie call it? ‘Determination and charm.’
No one else has had everything on the line.
27
Ingrid
By the timethe sun starts sliding down over the green waves of the Atlantic, the house is already buzzing like a hive. The Foundation Ball is tonight, and my mother has been in full command mode since dawn–shouting directions, rearranging florals, stopping just short of making some poor event planner cry in the driveway.
“You know how she is,” I say to Madison as I climb into the vanity chair. The stylist behind me separates a section of hair, winding it into a curling iron. “This is where she thrives.”
Madison snorts, perched on the velvet chaise across from mine, with her ever present laptop in front of her. “I wonder where you get it.”
I don’t bother answering. The truth is, she’s right. My mother loves this part–the planning and execution of a big event, setting the stage for a night to remember. I think it goes back to those real estate days, where designing and prepping a home were part of the job. And me? I’ve been trained for it since I was old enough to hold a microphone.
The room smells like hairspray and perfume. Two makeup artists hover with brushes and palettes, waiting their turn. My gown hangs on the back of the door, glittering under the recessed lights. The whole thing feels less like getting ready for a fundraiser and more like prepping for the Grammys. Except this time, it’s not about who wins, it’s about generosity.
I close my eyes as the heat from the iron brushes my neck. I’m almost relaxed when Madison clears her throat.
“So,” she says casually, too casually. “He’s in town.”
My eyes snap open. In the mirror, I catch her watching me. “Who?”
“Jake.”
“Why would I care if Jake’s in town?” It’s a genuine question. The excitement that I used to feel in my chest just at the mention of his name is no longer there.
She shrugs, an escaped tendril of hair grazing her shoulder. “He could be your date.”
The stylist makes a soft, awkward sound and focuses harder on the curl. My stomach knots.
“Why would I want Jake to be my date?” My voice comes out sharp enough to sting.
Madison doesn’t look away. “It’s an option. A safe one. People already know him, they like the story. It’d be good PR.”
PR. The word tastes like poison on my tongue. I stare at my reflection, my lashes half-done, hair half-curled, and suspicion starts prickling in the back of my skull. Why was he at the after-party in New York? He hadn’t been invited, not by me. And the Atlanta concert–he’d gotten backstage without a badge. Sure, Marv asked if he could come back, but even to get to the private area, somebody had to grease that door.
Somebody like Madison.
“Why do you even know he’s in town? Are you keeping up with him?”
“I keep up with everything,” she snaps. “Andeveryone. Including all of your exes. It’s my job.”
There’s a territorialness in her tone, one that makes me uncomfortable. My pulse ticks faster as the pieces start falling into place, ugly and undeniable. The photos that always seemed to leak. The gossip columns with just enough detail to sting. The times Jake magically appeared where he shouldn’t have been.
“Your job is to be my assistant, Madison. It’s not to push narratives in the press about my dating life,” I say slowly, testing the shape of the accusation. “Especially with men I’ve deemed aren’t healthy for me.”
Or, I wonder, men whoarehealthy for me and seem like a threat.
