“There’s more where that came from,” he says, the words making me think of things more scandalous than coffee. Things I shouldn’t be thinking about because Jeffrey is no longer on the Maybe We Should Do It list. “Do you want a cup for the road?”
“Yes, please,” I say as I hurry into the bathroom to brush my teeth. That’s the only good part of this stupid road-trip plan—I won’t be spending nearly as much time alone with Jeffrey—behind closed doors, with so many beds and other flat surfaces around, just begging for us to bang on top of them.
As I return to the bedroom to dress in my tightest jeans and a black, short-sleeved turtleneck sweater, I swear I hear the bed whisper, “Yes, please, bang on me!” and the carpet beneath it add, “Oh, me, too! Me, too.”
“Ridiculous,” I mutter.
The bed and the carpet are ridiculous and so am I.
I’ve already made my decision about banging Jeffrey—that I’m not going to do it. These forbidden thoughts tumbling around in my brain are a waste of headspace that I need for other things, like figuring out which part of my work in progress will be easiest to sew in the car.
After packing my smaller sewing tote with a corset and embroidery tools for the front seat—the rest of the collection can ride in the trunk—I find my red wig at the bottom of the bag and take it with me to the bathroom. I style the bob cut as best I can without hairspray or combs and apply heavier makeup than I usually would to make up for the way the brassy color washes out my face. I add thick black eyeliner and my chunkiest silver jewelry to the ensemble and finish the look with large reflective sunglasses.
When I step back from the mirror, an edgy designer stares back at me where once mousy Lizzy stood. I’ve worn this same get-up every time I’ve been called to Paris for in-person meetings at Princess Intimates Headquarters. No one but my immediate superior knows my true identity. The rest of the staff knows me as Thalia Thick, an eccentric mute who delivers consistently solid work that always falls just short of landing a designer contract.
But not this year.
This is my season, I can feel it.
That’s what I should be focusing on. I need to finish strong and mail out a collection that’s going to blow my boss’s socks off. I don’t need to be ghost hunting with Jeffrey.
Seriously, we might as well be looking for phantoms or fairies.
We’re never going to find the woman who took me when I was a child, especially not in Rue. If the woman was local, I would have run into her again at some point, but I haven’t. Not once in the past eighteen years.
I remind Jeffrey of this as he puts a travel mug of coffee in my hand and collects my sewing case from the top of the stairs, pausing only briefly to shoot my new hair and outfit a sideways glance.
I admit I’m a little let down about that. I didn’t want him to give me a hard time about my disguise, but I thought he might notice that I’m definitely sexier as Thalia than I am as Lizzy.
“We’re going to find her,” he insists without my having said a thing out loud. “Or someone who knows where to find her. Trust me.”
My forehead wrinkles. “Were you born this confident?”
“Yes,” he says, striding out the front door.
“There’s such a thing as too much confidence, you know,” I mutter. “It’s called hubris. It makes people do dumb things, like fly too close to the sun.”
“We’re leaving in two minutes, Icarus,” he calls back, proving he’s not only gorgeous and confident. His hearing is excellent and so is his recall of tragic Greek heroes.
“Some people have all the luck.” I step into my boots and zip them up before collecting my purse and the keys I intend to leave in my car in case the owner needs to move it before we get back.
Or on the off chance someone might want to steal it.
Now that she’s going to be a queen, I doubt Sabrina will be driving much, and if she does, she’ll drive something far grander than a Volvo with a sticky clutch. And Jeffrey is right—I’m a danger to myself and others when I’m behind the wheel.
Probably best for the planet if I hang up my driving gloves and take the bus for the rest of my time on earth.
However long that might be.
Maybe longer than you thought, a hopeful voice whispers in my head. Maybe Jeffrey is going to help make everything better.
But he already makes everything better—so good that, no matter how irritating he can be, I can’t imagine only having six months left with him. And that’s part of the problem. Those good feelings are dangerous and the hope he makes me feel is more dangerous, still.