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After grabbing an overnight bag, I head down to the foyer where Zara is waiting.
“You look stunning, Pen.”
I twirl. “Thank you.”
Zara takes my bag and sets it in the trunk of her car. “Call me when you want to be picked up.”
“I can catch an Uber,” I tell her while sliding into the front seat, barely bending at the waist. “I think this dress is a bit much.”
“It’s not. Don’t drink too much champagne. You’ll feel bloated and uncomfortable. Besides, I don’t want you with a hangover in my car when we drive home tomorrow.”
I laugh. “I won’t. Tomorrow is about our moms.”
The only place to stop for me to exit the car is farther along Wilshire Boulevard. Limousines line the street as guests walk a red carpet into the hotel. “I’m so freaking nervous.” I wipe my hands on my dress.
“Don’t do that.” Zara grabs my hands. “Think of tonight as a tick off your bucket list.”
“Attending my fuck-buddy’s mother’s charity gala was never on my bucket list.”
She giggles. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
I give her a sideways glance. “Let’s see… I could fall going up the stairs. I could trip in these shoes and spill my drink on some influential men. I could embarrass myself in front of Franklin’s family. I won’t know what to say when they ask me intelligent questions about the economy or for some random comment about the world.”
“Okay, okay. You’re not meeting English royalty. Just do the oldest trick in the book.”
“What’s that?”
“Imagine everyone at the table is naked.”
I grab my purse and lift my dress before stepping out of the car. “No help at all.”
“Okay, then focus on the best thing that can happen.” She grins at me.
My breath hitches.
Franklin loving me. Taking a step back from his work to spend a little time with me. Ugh. Never going to happen.
“Really? No, we need to meet somewhere in the middle. Otherwise, I might not make it back for Mother’s Day.”
“Right. Not the best and not the worst. Sit with someone who makes you laugh and who you’re not attracted to.”
I shake my head at my friend. “I’ll message you.” I swing the car door shut and walk toward the swanky hotel.
25
PENELOPE
All in black,I line up with a group of middle-aged ladies and men. Despite being almost incognito, among them, I feel like a fraud. They have come to bid their thousands and raise money for a brain injury charity. I arrived with a gifted ticket, and somehow, I’m at the Hendricks’ family table. I want to puke. I step to the front of the line, where the burly, suited security guard asks for my name.
“Penelope Gilbert.”
“Enjoy your night, ma’am.”
I take one, two, then three steps inside. Before I have time to assess where to go, I’m herded toward the foyer, where trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres are offered to the crowd.
As expected, I don’t recognize anyone.
Swiping a champagne glass from a tray as a server strides past, I head to the far corner, out of sight, but before I make it, a hand slides through my arm.
