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Libby reached for another glass before she downed the champagne in one go. “If we’re going to revitalize this party, you’re going to need backup. You take my dad. I’ll go for my cousin Marcus. My brother has two left feet.”
When they first approached their targets, neither was willing to go, probably because it seemed like a poorly conceived joke. But with some prodding, Libby’s dad caved first, forcing Libby to forcibly yank her cousin out of his seat.
It took way longer than Reagan expected for other people to join them, but once an elderly couple broke the ice, it was a busted floodgate. The band played with new gusto once the energy jumped above morgue levels. Even though she never stood, Reagan was satisfied watching Mrs. Cassanova clap along while tapping her foot to the music.
On their way out, Reagan and Libby were even sweatier than when they’d left her parents’ house. After saying their goodbyes, Libby linked their pinkies and strode back onto the black carpet leading them to the front door.
Leaving the party they’d started behind, Reagan smiled as they passed the room with the oil painting. On the co
rner of the mantle, she caught sight of the jar painted blue and yellow with the Cassanova crest.
C H A P T E R 2 8
“I THINK I’m going to start calling you the Cassanova whisperer,” Libby joked when Reagan pulled the SUV up to the studio.
“Yeah?” she laughed as she shifted into park and relaxed into the seat.
Libby ran her fingers through the messy, frizzy hair that had once been ironed so perfectly straight. “Because you almost moved the Grande Dame to tears,” she replied as if it should’ve been obvious. “I can’t believe you made my family crest. That’s an un-top-able gift. You realize that, right?”
The unfettered liberty with which she spoke made it obvious to Reagan she’d had a little too much to drink.
“Then I guess I’m gonna have to do something even more spectacular for Christmas.” She smiled. “Assuming I’m invited.”
“Invited? I think you’re the guest of honor,” she joked before reaching for her purse.
Reagan jumped out of the car and met her near the hood.
“Hey, do you want to stay over? Not to be a nag or anything, but I think it would be better if you didn’t drive. If you’re not comfortable with that, I’m happy to drive you home.”
Wrapping her arms around Reagan’s neck, Libby grinned.
“Is this your way of getting me into your bed?”
Reagan laughed. “I’m pretty sure I’m not the one who housed more than one bottle of champagne.”
“Details, details,” she whispered before pulling her down to her lips. The sudden height di erent between them made her realize Libby had taken o her shoes.
“You must be tipsy if you’re standing outside barefoot,”
she joked.
Libby looked down in shock. “Oh, God. My mom would kill me.”
“Don’t worry,” Reagan laughed as she slipped o her loafers and o ered them. “I’ve got socks on.”
As soon as Libby slipped her foot into her shoes, she closed her eyes and relished the sensation. “How are these so comfortable?” she whined. “And why do I ever wear high heels?”
Reagan took her hand as she fished her keys out of her pocket with the other. “Maybe because they make your calves look amazing.”
Libby leaned against the door frame. “That must be it,”
she agreed before pulling Reagan in for another kiss.
“Come on before the neighbors see us,” Reagan joked as she unlocked the door and motioned for Libby to get inside.
“I’m sure the raccoons would love the show,” she replied, lingering by the entrance until Reagan flipped on some lights. “What’s under here?” she asked as she strolled toward the canvas-covered pieces in her private section of the studio.
“Nothing that’s ready for exhibition,” she said, taking Libby’s hand before she got a look under the sheet.
