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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Tell Me More Publishing LLC
P.O. Box 764
Bellefonte PA, 16823
BROOKE
Sliding the last hair pin into place to secure my waterfall of dark waves, I stand and do a slow twirl. "So what do you think?"
Colby claps, grinning from ear to ear. "You look gorgeous!"
The most miraculous thing is I actually feel gorgeous for the first time in over a year.
My Aunt Trudy rips a dog treat in half and drops a hunk on the floor for her gassy, geriatric basset hound, Duncan, to gobble. "Personally, I think you look a little slutty."
Colby’s eyes bulge, and she chokes on a snort of shocked laughter.
I want to die. The dress belongs to Colby, and she’s graciously allowing me to borrow it for tonight’s party. I mouth a silent apology, and Colby shakes it off, looking highly amused.
Trudy, oblivious, points a long nail in my direction. "What happened to the other shoulder strap of your dress? It looks like your head's out the armpit."
I run a hand over the wide, silky, wide, pleated shoulder strap. "It’s a one-shoulder dress, Aunt Trudy."
She frowns and starts pulling on the fabric at my hip. "Hmm, interesting. And did you leave something unzipped or is this slit supposed to be this high?"
Colby presses a closed fist to her lips, and her shoulders start to shake.
My eyes snap in her direction. "Apologies times a thousand, possibly more." Colby’s eyes fill with unshed tears of laughter, and a burst of air rushes from my lungs as I try not to chuckle.
"Yes, Aunt Trudy. The slit is supposed to be mid-thigh high. This is actually a very elegant cocktail dress." While explaining, I gently ease her hands away from the delicate fabric.
Trudy shrugs her small, thin shoulders. "I don’t know if elegant is the word, but it’s definitely interesting. The thing hugs your ass like a second skin. " She pitches a look over at Colby as if remembering there’s someone else in the room. "To each their own, as they say. All I'm saying, Brookey-bru, is don't be surprised if every Tom, Dick, and Harry starts sniffing at your skirts tonight, especially your slit."
Odd noises come from the back of Colby’s throat. She presses on her chest as though trying to pop a bubble of giddy giggles and looks like she’s going to blow a button soon.
Trudy continues, unaware. "But then again, you're not there to party, you’re there to do a job and sell houses. Because, Lord knows, this one isn't going to pay for itself."
I reach for one of Trudy’s hands and give it a supportive squeeze. She’s already neck-deep in chronic health issues, I hate that she’s also worried sick over bills. Maybe some of her barbed comments tonight come from guilt, knowing that I have no desire to attend the swanky spring bash or to sell houses again.
At least Aunt Trudy realizes that I can’t attend a fancy spring soiree at the Brocker Lodge in my house robe, because one thing both Aunt Trudy and I desperately need is a payday. So modesty is out the window tonight! This will be my big chance to introduce myself as the Brocker’s head of sales at their new equine community, Golden Meadow, and I must look the part.
But with all of that aside, there was no way I was getting out of the house unscathed while wearing this silky cocktail dress. Ever since I moved into my aunt's house, it feels like I’m back in high school with a dress code and a curfew. I had no other choice but to move in to slow the hemorrhaging of funds from my piddly savings account after a rather nasty divorce and especially since I started helping Trudy with her health care costs.
Taking care of someone else's bills when I can’t afford my own isn’t wise, but Trudy's all I have left, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
I lean forward and press a small kiss to her temple, right above where her oxygen tube snakes behind her ear. "You’re right; I have to be and look on top of my game tonight. This is my chance to gain my first clients, and I owe it to the Brocker’s to give it my all."
Trudy reaches out and pulls at the pleats over my shoulder. "Well, we all know what Reba would say. Here's your one chance, Fancy, don't let me down."
I groan, and Colby’s brow furrows. "Reba who?"
A flash of mischief crosses Trudy’s eyes, and I just shake my head. "My aunt’s favorite country singer, Reba McEntire."
Colby’s lips form a perfect ‘O.’ "I’ve heard her name but don’t know any of her songs. What’s the song about?"
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "It’s a song about a poverty-stricken mother forcing her daughter into prostitution in order to survive. But obviously, that’s not the case tonight. I’m not about to enter prostitution, but sales, thank you very much."
