She subtly applies a sheer shade of imaginary lipstick with her middle finger.
“Quince and I will meet you at the party at nine.”
Son of a bitch. The New Year’s Eve “Mask-erade.” Obviously, I’d blocked out the fact that this trip includes a social engagement where an actual grown-ass human decided it would be a good time to take a traditional masquerade-themed party and sleaze it up by making the masks be made out of rubber and celebrity likenesses instead of exquisite lace and beading. But Emory’s reminder ensures I can’t ignore it now.
It takes every ounce of willpower not to dive into a long-winded, snarky rant about it.
But I suck it up and remind myself of the silver lining.
A New Year’s Eve party equals alcohol, Greer.
“Be on time, please,” Emory adds, but the please completely contradicts the stern, motherlike tone in which she delivers it.
“As if I’m ever anything else.”
Her responding scoff echoes around us.
“Just enjoy yourself,” she says. “Have a positive attitude for once. If you do, I guarantee it’ll be great.”
“You got it, Mom.”
“Hey,” she says, and her eyes turn soft as she steps forward to wrap me up in a hug. “You’re my best friend, and all I want is for you to be happy. I know I’m pushy, but it’s only because I love you.”
I hug her back. “Love you too, E. Even when you sound like you’re gearing up for a career in direct sales.”
She snorts and lets me go with amusement shining in her eyes.
“Working out before a party gets results, people! Four out of five farm animals can’t be wrong!” I use a far too high-pitched voice to mimic hers. “Happy people make happy choices, and this tea is the answer to happiness at least once a day! Your tits will be perky and your energy rejuvenated! Try the gel pads under your eyes for a fresh day feel!” I finish off my little act with a set of a jazz hands and a cheeky grin.
“I feel like you might have exaggerated a bit there…”
“Nah.” I grin and shake my head. “I’m pretty sure that’s what you said.”
Emory rolls her eyes and laughs at the same time. “I’ll see you tonight at the party.”
She departs without another word—probably in an effort to avoid another smartass comeback or impromptu jazz hands—and leaves me to my own devices.
Once she’s gone, the interior designer in me kicks in, and my surroundings become my companion.
And let me tell you, she’s a real bitch.
The lobby is ostentatious in its design, and I’m practically offended by the maroon and green color scheme. Honestly, even Santa Claus would be offended, and that jolly mothershucker is all about the green and red.
The décor is more pretentious confusion than anything else. And if I have to come face-to-face with one more gilded sailboat painting or ornate statue, I swear on everything, I might puke.
Jesus. These people are never going to want me to do the design work for their New Orleans hotel. We have completely different tastes.
My style is what the design world would call comfortable minimalism. Not minimalism like Kim and Kanye’s morgue-like mansion, but warm light, rich textures, and clean lines. My designs revolve around making a space feel light and airy yet so warm and cozy you feel like you’re cocooned inside of a womb.
A space you not only want to look at, but you want to live in, be in, thrive in, too.
But this? This flashy and ostentatious gilded-clutter of a design scheme is giving me a headache.
If this space is a womb, I’m smack-dab in the center of Satan’s uterus.
Discouraged again, I head for the elevator, intent on ordering a hamburger the size of my face and devouring it like the classy lady I am—wearing nothing but a bathrobe while lounging in bed, mind you—when I get to my room.
When the elevator door opens, I step inside and turn around, only to realize I’ve been followed in by what must be a supermodel convention.
The five women are tall, slender, and artfully put together. Sexy heels. Sexy dresses. Perfect hair. Perfect nails. Perfect lashes and lips. They are ready to do it up New Year’s Eve-style in New York City.
And standing beside them is me—a woman wearing wrinkled clothes, who stinks of airplanes and bad news.
I’m basically the cover model for pathetic right now.
And it’s that bleak thought that sparks something inside of me.
Emory’s right.
If I have any chance of going into that interview in two days with an attitude even slightly better than the Grim Reaper, I need to shake it up.
Make different choices. Get some endorphins or whatever shit Elle Woods has, and give myself a chance to turn it around.
I have tonight and all day tomorrow to get myself in order. Get my mind right. Get my confidence up.