Page 75 of The Billionaire Is Back

“Not surprised at all, Little Sweeney.” I suppose she was expecting me to be, but I’m not in the least. I take her hand in mine. “I want to hear all about it.”

She spends the rest of the limo ride telling me all about the master class that I spent a ridiculous amount of money on—an amount I would have gladly tripled, given how elated she is.

“I had to use store-bought marshmallows, though,” she says, pouting. She’s pretending to be complaining, but I know how much it really pissed her off that she didn’t have time to make her own marshmallows for Peter Broadway. And I love it.

It.

I loveit.

We arrive at the Plaza Hotel, and I have to ask Claire, without sarcasm, if she’s ever posed for photographers on a red carpet before—because she is a natural. She’s poised, confident, smiling calmly.

“I’m thinking about the s’mores I made today,” she tells me in a hushed tone. “And wondering if I should sell s’mores brownies. Vera sent me a picture of Crabby Crawford sitting outside the bakery, looking all lost. I think he’d love a brownie version.”

It’s not weird that I’m jealous because she’s standing next to me thinking about a nine-hundred-year-old man back home.

A photographer calls out asking who designed Claire’s dress, and she yells, “Vera freaking Wang!”

I love it.

I got Vera freaking Wang to design that dress for her, so Grumpy Gus can suck it.

When we enter the foyer to the grand ballroom, it’s like walking into a greenhouse. The air is more humid because the room is filled with potted plants. We’re accosted by oxygen and Alice Strout. She looks as though she was squeezed into her dress. She once told me she’s been a size zero her whole adult life, so this gown must be a size negative two. There’s an enormous green silk flower on one of her shoulders, perched there like a parrot, and I can’t stop staring at it as she leads us to our table inside the ballroom.

“Arrgh, matey,” she says, squinting at me.

“You look lovely, Alice. Are they already here?” I don’t need to explain to her who “they” are.

She gives a curt nod as we take our seats. “They are. The assistant looks fabulous, butyoulook sensational, honey,” she tells Claire.

“Anything I need to know?” I ask her.

She hands me a small, folded piece of paper. “Here’s somebreak glass in case of emergencyinformation if you need it. I did a little digging.” She winks at me, and her extra-long fake eyelashes stick together for a second.

I’m about to open it, but the appetizers are already being served and Mrs. Pembroke is welcomed to the stage to give a speech, so I slip it into my pocket.

We sit through an hour of small talk and fine dining, speeches from botanists and plant psychologists beseeching us to show more concern for our ferns. Pleading for reciprocity in our relationship with houseplants—it is a scientific fact that human interaction with plants is therapeutic and enhances our health and well-being, so we must, in return, relieve undue stress upon our indoor vegetation. And then there’s a rare exotic-houseplant auction, and I bid eight thousand dollars on a monstera something or other that I’ll have delivered to my office. Finally, the lighting changes and a band takes the stage, signaling that we can start milling about and dancing. Signaling that I can finally present my out-of-this-world, down-to-earth, small-town date to the Pembrokes.

I stand up and scan the room, immediately clocking Lynch and Miss Lovejoy as they are getting up from another table. Lynch already has me in his stare. With anod, I silently comment on how lovely Miss Lovejoy looks and how great they look together.

And how absolutely full of shit he is.

Lynch glances over at Claire and back at me. He nods, indicating that Claire also looks lovely and that we look great together.

And that he knows I am completely full of shit too.

We raise our glasses to each other from across the room and polish them off. We both spot Aston Pembroke and his wife at the same time. I lock eyes with Lynch once more.

Game on.

I place my hand at the small of Claire’s back. He places his hand at the small of Emma Lovejoy’s. We gently guide our partners toward the Pembrokes.

“What is happening?” Claire asks through a broad smile.

“The Pembrokes are over there,” I murmur. “Lynch and his date are over there.” I indicate our competitors with a tilt of my head.

Claire marks them.

It’s like a couples’ luxury speed-walking race as the four of us arrive at the finish line at the exact same time.

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