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2
SENNA
“Oh, my God? Where is he?”
Harper’s voice ripples through the air, her sparkling eyes roving around, her voice brimming with excitement.
I motion to her to follow me into the bedroom and swing the door shut as soon as she enters the room.
The loud music crawls up the stairs, meshed with the guests’ voices, dripping through the walls.
People are dancing, chatting, and drinking. Most of them occupy the first floor of the house, while some of them have retreated into the backyard.
It’s the Who’s Who of the online entrepreneurial world, people handpicked by Harper and me from a list that’s been dutifully provided by a well-known PR firm in exchange for a fee.
This is a PR event more than anything else.
Most of my guests have no idea who invited them or what my business is all about.
“Tell me,” Harper demands impatiently as I enter the walk-in closet and fumble through the racks, still looking for something to wear.
Her rushed breaths tickle the back of my neck.
One hanger in each hand, I spin around to face her.
“He is not here.”
“Is he coming later?” she asks, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, driving me crazy.
“Probably not.”
“Oh...”
Disappointment comes in waves from her lips. And eyes.
I try to ignore her while running my gaze over the two options I’m holding in my hands. A maxi chiffon dress with a low plunging neckline in the back and scarves flowing from the shoulders that make me look like a sixties Goddess, and also a sequin jumper reminiscent of the disco era.
I glance in the mirror, pondering. She watches me in silence.
I swing my gaze back to her, and she still has that questioning look on her face.
Oh... I forgot. We were talking about him.
She looks at me with sad puppy eyes, her face flushed. Big ringlets of auburn hair roll down her back, her green eyes gleaming. A skintight mini dress paired with high heels shows her enticing curves and toned legs.
So not like her.
“How come you’re all sexed up? What happened to your boyfriend?” I ask, pulling another dress out of my closet.
Lenny Jamison––the man she called boyfriend for the past year or so––is notorious for painting Harper’s existence gray.
“We broke up,” she says, a grin lighting up her face.
I give her a double take.
“Aren’t people supposed to be sad when they’re breaking up?” I ask, smiling.
Lenny was a toxic man if I’ve ever seen one.
