Page 19 of Mr. Wilde

Lala gives her a pointed look. “It’s one night. Try not to get caught shooting daggers at any of them. Jealousy isn’t a good look on anyone.”

Brier rolls her eyes. “There’s no RSVP list. All of the members have an open invitation and can use this opportunity to bring in their partners or acquaintances.”

“Or their mistress,” Candice whispers not so subtly behind her curled hand.

“Yes. You’re right. It’s what they pay for. Anonymity. And it’s not our place to judge.” Lala replies, her voice clipped. “Now, let’s try to enjoy the evening and make sure all of the members and their guests have a fantastic night.” She turns toward the door but stops short. “And Brier, watch the new girls. Take some mental notes. If that’s where you see yourself, figure out what they’re doing and see if there’s a way to replicate it. Try to stand out to Gianni so you’ll have your chance in the fall.”

A rare smile curls one corner of Brier’s lips.

“Now, let’s go get you girls dolled up.”

We move to hair and makeup after that. The room is full of stylists standing before mirrors, straightening and curling irons charged and at the ready. I have to bite down on the inside of my cheek to prevent giggling. Why does this remind me of the scene in The Wizard of Oz where Dorothy and the cowardly lion are getting the full glamour treatment?

One of the hairdressers motions for me to come closer and take a seat. She places her hands on my shoulders and looks at me through the mirror before tilting her head. “We keeping the pink?”

“Yes,” I blurt, a little too fast. Hell, it’s practically my safety blanket at this point.

She laughs and gets to work with a quick wash and blow out before curling my hair into big soft waves, fastening one side like a modern pin-up girl.

Wowww. I blink, barely recognizing myself in the mirror.

Then she pauses. Her eyes flick to the noticeable scar that travels along my jawline before we make brief eye contact. I’m usually able to cover this with makeup or with my hair down. She doesn’t ask. Doesn’t react. Just adjusts her brush and keeps going. Relief washes through me.

She finishes with my hair, and a makeup artist comes to her side, dragging a cart on wheels alongside her. The woman has jet-black hair and pale facial features with overdramatic false eyelashes and lipstick. It honestly makes me a bit concerned for how my look is going to turn out. I mean, she kinda resembles Betty Boop.

But my fears are eased as she keeps my makeup fairly subtle. A light brush of pink blush that accentuates the colorful strands running through my blonde locks, dark mascara applied to my lashes, but otherwise only neutral eyeshadow. She saves the one pop of color for my lips. She artfully applies bright, shimmering, eye-catching lipstick. It looks like she’s painted sugar crystals onto my mouth. She steps back to admire her handiwork. “There,” her voice is warm and proud.

I search her expression. Is that a pity smile? Because there’s no way she missed that jagged red scar along my right jawline. Before I can consider this further, Lala appears behind me.

“Holy shit, Cass. You look like Gwen Stefani.”

I give her a stunned smile. “You think?”

Fern suddenly perks up, glancing at me from where she’s seated. “What’s with your obsession with the pink hair anyway?”

I shrug. “Things were tough a few years ago. Felt like a change was in order. I was taking myself too seriously. And Penelope Garcia from Criminal Minds has always been my idol.”

Fern claps. “Derek Morgan is more my type.”

“Shemar Moore is so hot,” Candice agrees, fanning herself. “Even my grandmother watched him on The Young and The Restless before he starred in Criminal Minds.” She laughs.

“Well, Penelope Garcia is a badass,” I interject, almost defensively. It’s clearly not about looks for me. Her character is about embracing her unique self, quirks and all. Everything I hope to be one day.

Lala smiles at me through the mirror. “I think you’re the badass.”

My eyes hold hers. Is she just being kind?

Or does she know?

7

MAX

Loretta appears in my doorway, a storm cloud in sensible shoes. “You have a client on hold,” she blurts. “Sounds high society. Very determined. She wouldn’t tell me her last name.”

Hell. That’s never a good sign. “I’m not taking new consults today, Loretta.”

“Don’t test me this morning, Max. Or I’ll pop off like a can of biscuits. I’m already plumb worn out from trying to wrangle Bauer, Yamila, and some new guy in the mailroom. It’d be easier trying to get a litter of kittens to walk in a straight line.”