Page 9 of Famous for a Living

No.

There’s no ploy in his look.

It’s the real thing. Bona fide, shallowly disguised aversion to all that I stand for, all that, to him, I am.

I blink and turn back to my uncle, all the while scratching at my wrist. “Come on up. I’ll get us some coffee.”

Zaiah trails several feet behind with the phone pressed to his ear, still clearly getting nowhere.

“Because we were told that it was part of the conference fee,” he says, irritation simmering on the surface of his voice. “I’ve already talked to the conference director. He said I should talk to you.”

The doors shut and I hit the lowest button. The number sixteen glows as I turn to my uncle. “Which hotel are you staying at?”

Local travel is one of my niches—if you can call where to stay and eat in a city of more than eight million niche. I know and have been paid to visit just about every hotel in town, and frankly, at this point, if I haven’t been there, it’s because one shouldn’t.

“Regalia Inn. A half mile from the convention center.”

I haven’t been there.

“They have a continental breakfast,” he adds. “All you can eat.”

“Well . . .” I give a polite nod at the idea of traveling thousands of miles to the city with arguably the most vibrant food culture in America . . . to have batches of overcooked bacon and powdered eggs. I rack my brain for a compliment on this decision.

“You”—I release a broad smile—“are going to love that.” I gauge for a moment which way I should play the fact that I have a party going on, and whether telling him now or waiting until he’s securely inside will be my best bet at keeping him from running away.

Better rip the Band-Aid off now.

“So I should give you a heads-up. I have a few people over.”

He grimaces, just like I knew he would. What few years Uncle Terry had before marrying Aunt Claire and working with the National Park Service were spent as an all but hermit in Alaska.

Covered in furs.

Fishing for dinner.

To put it in perspective, Uncle Terry considered his promotion three years ago to head ranger at Kannery National Park and the ensuing responsibilities of overseeing the handful of staff and dozens of visitors per day an overwhelming amount of social interaction.

“You don’t have to talk to any of them,” I add lightheartedly. “I’ll set you up right next to the coffee machine in the kitchen while I do a few things”—like entertain the biggest event of my life—“and be back the second I can.”

His silence is stone cold, and I throw out, “Plus, there’s a charcuterie fountain.”

At this, even Zaiah shifts his gaze to me.

“A . . . what?” Uncle Terry says.

“A charcuterie fountain,” I repeat, waving my hands around. “Something Serena dreamed up. Mustard spills out the top. A volcano really. The mustard follows a winding little path between the soppressata and Genoa salami and ’nduja.”

Uncle Terry and Zaiah both look at me like I’m mad.

I drop my hands to my sides. “Meat. It’s a volcano of meat.”

I see Uncle Terry, and his reflection in the elevator mirror for that matter, frown. “I didn’t know you were having company—”

Of course he didn’t. Because to him, total isolation is part of the dream package when it comes to birthdays. He probably thought I spent my birthdays watching the fire crackle in my fireplace with a good glass of wine. He’ll probably go ballistic seeing my fireplace is electric.

“It’s fine.” I grip his hand as reassuringly as I can. “I am so thrilled that you are here.”

He turns the khaki-colored, stiff-brim hat in his hands, eyeing my hand on his. “Maybe just a quick cup, and we’ll get out of your hair after that. We ought to be hitting the hay soon anyway. Have another early morning.”