The biggest indoor space at Heights Country Day was called the Commons. It was part lounge, part meeting space, and tonight it had been transformed. Gold curtains lined the sides of the room. The furniture had been replaced with dozens of circular tables covered with silk tablecloths in a deep midnight purple. Emily’s favorite color. Near the front of the room, two enormous pictures sat on golden easels. One was an architect’s sketch of the new chapel. The other was a photograph of Emily Laughlin. I tried not to stare at it—and failed.
Emily’s hair was strawberry blond, with just enough of a natural wave to make her look a little unpredictable. Her skin was unbearably clear, her eyes all-knowing. She wasn’t as beautiful as Rebecca, but there was something about the way she smiled.…
I couldn’t help thinking that maybe it was a good thing that Jameson and Grayson weren’t here. They’d loved her, both of them. Maybe they still do.
Beside me, Xander bumped his shoulder into mine. Alisa had given him strict orders to stay close to me, just like she’d reluctantly assigned Nash as Libby’s escort tonight. Part of the damage control we were supposed to do was conveying that I was on good terms with the Hawthorne family—easier said than done, given that Xander and Nash weren’t the only Hawthornes in attendance.
On the far side of the room, I caught sight of Zara and Constantine, mingling.
“We need to work the room,” Alisa murmured directly into the back of my head. She began herding Xander and me toward a string quartet, and that was the exact moment when I spotted Skye Hawthorne. She was laughing freely, surrounded by admirers—some male, some female.
“The couple on the left are Christine Terry and her husband, Michael,”
Alisa murmured. “Third-generation oil money. Not people you want as enemies.”
I translated that to mean: not people we want laughing with Skye.
“I’ll introduce you,” Alisa told me.
“Help me,” I mouthed at Max.
“I would,” she whispered, “but there’s a waiter who just walked by, and he’s carrying shrimp!”
Ten seconds later, I was shaking hands with Christine Terry. “Skye here was telling us you’re not much of a football fan,” her husband declared, jovial and loud. “Any chance you feel like parting with the Lone Stars?”
“You’ll have to forgive my husband,” Christine told me. “I keep telling him there’s a time and a place for business.”
“And a time and place for football!” Michael boomed.
“Avery’s not looking to part with any assets at the moment,” Alisa said evenly. “I don’t know what could have given anyone that idea.”
By anyone, she meant Skye, but the boys’ murderous mother was a Hawthorne to her bones—and thoroughly undaunted. “Darling Avery here is a Libra,” Skye cooed. “Ambivalent, people-pleasing, and cerebral. We can all read between those lines.” She paused, then extended a hand to her right. “Isn’t that right, Richard?”
She couldn’t have timed his appearance better if she’d tried. Richard—
which was 100 percent not Ricky’s given name—wrapped an arm around Skye’s waist. She’d dressed the deadbeat in an expensive tailored suit.
Looking at him, I tried to remind myself that he was nothing to me.
But when he smiled, I still felt seven years old and about three inches tall.
I tightened my grip on Xander, but he stepped away from me suddenly.
About a dozen yards away, I saw the Laughlins. Mr. and Mrs. Laughlin looked distinctly uncomfortable in formal wear. Rebecca was standing beside them, and next to her was a woman in her forties or fifties who looked eerily like Emily would have if she’d lived to grow older.
As I watched, the woman—who I could only assume was the girls’
mother—downed a large glass of wine in one gulp. Rebecca’s eyes met Xander’s, and a second later, he was gone, leaving me to his mother’s mercies.
“Have I introduced you to Avery’s father?” Skye asked the group, her gaze settling on Christine Terry. “I have it on good authority that he’ll be
filing for custody of our little heiress very soon.”
Forty minutes later, when I saw Ricky heading for the bar, I tasked Max with distracting Alisa so I could corner him alone.
“Why the long face, Cricket?” Ricky Grambs smiled as I came to stand beside him. He was the kind of drunk who had effusive praise for everyone.
I should have expected the charm offensive. The fact that he’d called me by a nickname shouldn’t have mattered.
“Don’t call me Cricket. My name is Avery.”
“It was supposed to be Natasha,” he declared grandly. “Did you know that?”
My throat tightened. He was a deadbeat. He’d always been a deadbeat.
Based on what I’d discovered, he probably wasn’t even my father. So why did talking to him hurt?
“Your mom had a middle name all picked out, so I was going to choose your first. I’ve always liked the sound of the name Natasha.” The bartender approached, and Ricky Grambs didn’t miss a beat. “One more for me,” he said, then winked. “And one for my daughter.”
“I’m underage,” I said stiffly.
His eyes sparkled. “You have my permission, Cricket.”
Something inside me snapped. “You can shove your permission up your
—”
“Smile,” he murmured, leaning toward me “For the press.”
I glanced back and saw a photographer. Alisa had dragged me to this party to tell a story, not make a scene.
“You really should smile more, pretty girl.”
“I’m not that pretty,” I said quietly. “And you’re not my father.”
Ricky Grambs accepted a bottled beer from the bartender. He lifted it to his lips, but not before I saw his bulletproof charm waver.
Does he know that I’m not his? Is that why he’s never cared? Why I never mattered?
Ricky recovered. “I may not have been there as much as either of us would have liked, Ladybug, but I was never more than a phone call away,
and I’m here now to make things right.”
“You’re here for the money.” It took everything in me not to yell.
Instead, I lowered my voice enough that he had to lean forward to hear it.
“You’re not going to get a dime. My legal team will bury you. You refused to take custody when Mom died. You think a judge won’t see through your sudden interest now?”
He stuck his chin out. “You weren’t alone after your mom. My Libby took good care of you.” He clearly expected credit for that, when he’d never done a damn thing for Libby, either.
“You never even signed my birth certificate,” I gritted out. I half expected him to deny it.
Instead, he gulped the rest of the beer and placed the empty bottle on the bar. I stared him down for a second or two, then picked up the bottle, turned, and walked toward Alisa, who was still trying to get around Max.
I handed my lawyer the beer bottle. “I want a DNA test,” I murmured.
Alisa stared at me for a moment, then schooled her face into a perfect pleasant expression. “And I want you to go find a half dozen items to bid on in the silent auction.”
I accepted the terms of her deal. “Done.”
