“Vineyard?” I repeated, staring longingly at the Pacific.
Thomas scratched his neck and shrugged. “Tabby says they’re known for their 2014 Pinot. Whatever that means.”
I tugged at his collared shirt and pulled him toward the bathroom. “We can do some fun things in fifteen minutes.”
We gave each other hand jobs and made out under the spray until our lips were swollen and our skin felt pruney. Then we toweled off and got ready. I donned a fabulous floral button-down with houndstooth-print trousers and a matching jacket, moussed my hair, added gloss and the teensiest bit of glitter, and declared myself ready to be fed to the lions.
“No one will feed you to the lions on my watch,” Thomas assured me.
“Don’t worry, I won’t let them make a meal out of you either.” I straightened his collar and ran my fingers along the lapels of his new sports coat, then glanced at our reflection in the guest-bathroom mirror. “Any rules tonight?”
“Nope. Be you.”
I smiled. “I can do that.”
We’d dressed as fast as possible but still missed the shuttle to the estate. Thomas didn’t want to wait for the next one, so we drove a mile or two north and stopped in front of a massive iron gate flanked by eucalyptus trees.
I peered out the windshield and rolled down my window. “Now what?”
“Type the code in…eight-six-seven-five-three-oh-nine”
“Oh, wow. I love that song!” I sang the chorus of the 80s classic, chuckling at the professor’s blank stare. “You must know this one, Thomas. Everyone knows it.”
“Slightly familiar, but…no.” He pointed at the keypad meaningfully. “The code, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
I pursed my lips to keep my grin in check, then typed the numbers, singing at the top of my lungs as the gates slowly creaked open. The tune died in my throat when a massive Spanish-style mansion with arched windows, huge iron lantern sconces, and a grand wood and glass door came into view. White roses and lavender lined the gravel pathways, softening the relentlessly beige color palette.
It was absolutely gorgeous…and tranquil. Like a spa getaway.
With about forty or more very well-dressed strangers.
No problem.
I smoothed my collar and checked my gloss in the side mirror when he parked his Acura next to a high shrub, leaving enough space for the shuttle van to maneuver around us.
“Tommy! Holden!”
A pretty, middle-aged brunette appeared out of nowhere, waving her arms above her head. She was joined by a man who looked a lot like an older version of the professor and another couple, who Thomas clandestinely informed me were our hosts, the Remingtons. And no…they didn’t look familiar at all.
Thomas squeezed my hand briefly as they approached. “And here we go.”
“It’ll be fine,” I replied, for my own sake. “But…didn’t you tell them I was coming?”
“Yes, but they don’t always listen.”
My first impression of the Hartwells and Remingtons was that they looked alike. Both couples were in their mid-to-late fifties and had that perennial suntanned, healthy-living, designer granola vibe that most people associated with Californians. Like The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, except with impeccable manners and conservative haircuts. They rocked a country club black-tie event look with designer suits and sparkling dresses.
Thomas fit in perfectly. His charcoal trousers hugged his ass, his suit coat highlighted his broad shoulders and tapered waist, and his glasses complemented his square jaw. Thanks to a recent trim, his hair game was on point too. He was fucking gorgeous. I was the outlier. Don’t get me wrong, I looked fabulous, but I didn’t belong here.
Nerves gave way to curiosity when a stunning woman who looked a bit like Thomas teetered our way on impossibly high heels. She cut in front of the Hartwells and threw herself in Thomas’s arms. This had to be his twin sister. And the muscular man with brown hair and kind eyes next to her was most likely her fiancé.
I studied the siblings curiously. Tabitha and Thomas shared height, hair and eye color, lean physiques, and…nothing else. If they did, it was hidden under a layer or two of collagen and Botox. Tabitha was gorgeous in a put-together way. She looked like the kind of woman who shopped haute couture, wore heels to the park, and knew all her best angles.
In other words, she was Thomas’s complete opposite.
“Noah, this is my sister, Tabby.”
“Correction. I’m Tabitha and you are not Holden.” She held out her manicured hand like a princess, then pointed at my jacket. “But that’s okay. You look like much more fun. Tommy’s friends are usually crazy-smart scientists. Are you?”
“No, not at all,” I admitted.
“What do you do for a living, Noah?” she asked.
“I’m a hair stylist.”
Tabitha’s grin was a little plastic, but for half a second, I could see the twin connection. “Then you must be responsible for my brother’s magical transformation. Tommy, you look yar!”
He frowned. “Yar is a nautical term meaning quick to move, Tabby. It doesn’t make sense to tell someone they look yar.”