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ine was stunning. “This is gorgeous,” she said, running her fingertips over the finely crafted garment. “It’s so edgy and so sexy. I can’t pull this o .”
Mary waved her away as she pulled the jumpsuit o the hanger. “Get outta here with that. Come on. You’re going to have to lose the bra. It’s going to compliment what I made for Reagan so well.”
Before she knew what was happening, Libby was dressed in the long-sleeved jumpsuit showing more cleavage than she’d ever revealed before. After being prompted, she slipped into pointy nude heels.
“You look stunning. Reagan is going to die,” Mary decided excitedly. “What are going to do about your hair?”
Libby glanced at the mirror. “What’s wrong with my hair?” She stroked her waves.
Mary stood on a stepstool and pulled Libby’s hair back.
“This outfit is all about drama. We need to pull this into a painfully tight bun and darken your eye makeup. Trust me.
You’re going to be a knockout.”
Turning her head from side to side to get di erent angles, Libby agreed to trust her judgment. Half an hour later, her dark hair was styled in an elegant, low bun and her dark green eyes were popping against the smokey eye makeup and bold, red lipstick Mary talked her into.
Libby had never felt like a bigger imposter in her life, but as her morning worn on and she received compliments from the various vendors she met, she’d started to believe she didn’t look as uncomfortable as she felt.
It was near sunset when she turned the familiar corner toward Reagan’s desolate corner of the world. This time, instead of driving alone down the winding road through empty factories and dilapidated warehouses, she was one in a long line of cars inching toward the massive tent in the distance.
Libby popped several antacids as she waited her turn, though part of her wanted to pull privilege and drive around to the front of the line. It wasn’t entirely her fault she was late. Three times she’d set out for the studio, and each time she was forced back by an emergency. Now, with a trunk full of dry ice, several cases of wine, and more garbage bags than anyone could use in a lifetime, she was finally minutes away from the main event.
“Ms. Cassanova,” the valet that had worked her grandmother’s parties for years eyes widened as he opened the door. “Wow.”
Libby smiled as she stepped out of the car. “Thanks, Mike. You look pretty sharp yourself,” she said, pointing at the paint-splattered vests.
“Pretty cool, right? Mrs. Cassanova didn’t think too much of Reagan’s idea,” he replied as he jumped into her SUV.
Standing frozen, Libby opened her mouth, but it was several seconds before any sound came out. “My grandmother is here?”
“Yes. And your parents. And your brother,” he said with a furrowed brow as if judging her for not knowing her own family was in attendance.
“Can you pull it around back? The caterers need what’s in the trunk,” she managed to squeak out before he closed the door.
As Libby sauntered up to the tent, she projected as much confidence as she could muster. Though she was grateful Taylor ran up to her before she got more than halfway up the walkway.
“Holy smokes! Is that from Reagan’s friend’s place? She made this?” Taylor took her abruptly by the hand and spun her around. “You look like you just walked out of a fashion magazine or something. Come on, I promised the reporter from Telemundo you’d do a little thing for her as soon as you got here.”
As they rushed toward the tent where hundreds of people were helping themselves to food and drink, Libby protested.
“Tay, I’m not here as a guest! I have a ton of stu to do!”
“I know, I know, but I made a ton of promises to get her to come. And her being here is how I got, like, half the other people to come,” she explained as Libby tried not to lose her balance while on razor-thin heels.
Taylor wasn’t exaggerating when she said she’d made a lot of promises. It took Libby nearly an hour to fulfill them all and then another twenty minutes taking pictures with guests at the step full of sponsor logos.
She was nearly free to find Reagan when the Cassanova Clan started making its way toward her like a pack of wolves circling weak pray. Libby straightened and jammed her hands in the convenient pockets Mary made.
As the Alpha, her grandmother walked ahead of the others. Libby smiled despite her fear of disapproval. While her grandmother eyed her silently, her parents hugged her
and complimented her look and the party. No one mentioned how they were invited.
“Hola, Mima.” Libby took the initiative and hugged her grandmother. “What do you think of the event?”
“Where did you buy that?” she asked, giving away no hints as to whether she liked it.
“Reagan’s friend is a seamstress. Mary Mercado. She just opened her own shop and made this for me in no time. She’ll be here tonight.” Libby hoped her grandmother would be gentle if only to refrain from being rude to a guest by criticizing her.
