Hands on her hips, head cocked to one side and chewing her bottom lip to the point of pain, Clover stared into the open doors of her small closet and tried to imagine anything inside as being appropriate for a big deal event like the Harbor City General Hospital Gala. Build a house for Habitat for Humanity? She had something to wear for that. A week in the desert working on an oral history of a native tribe? Yep, she had it covered. A party with Harbor City’s richest and snobbiest? That was going to take some creativity.
For that, she needed Daphne. Clover did a quick mental calculation. Her best friend was an airline attendant and in Portland tonight. So that meant it was still early. What the hell, it was worth a try. Clover grabbed her phone.
Clover: BFF SOS
Daphne: What up?
Clover: Have to go to a charity fundraiser ball thing. What to wear?
Daphne: 1. Awesome! 2. Ummmmmmm…diamonds?
Clover: Funny, you hag.
Daphne: It’s why you love me. My closet is yours.
Clover: You’re the best.
Daphne: LOL. Tell me in person tom morn when I get back to HC
Clover: xoxo
Daphne: :)
After a quick check at the clock, Clover hustled into Daphne’s room in the apartment they’d shared since graduating college. She slid over the bright and patterned hangers to the dark and rarely worn section in the back and pulled out a pair of wine-colored cigarette pants. Okay, she had at least ten pounds on Daphne, but as long as she could still button them then they were something she could build off of. She pivoted and held them out in front of her. One look at her reflection was all the nope she needed.
It shouldn’t matter. It wasn’t like she cared what other people thought about her, but it was hard to remember that she was a different person from that awkward small-town girl who years ago had walked into Harbor City University for the first time overwhelmed, scared, and beyond out of her depth. Thank God her dorm roommate turned out to be Daphne. If it hadn’t been for her, Clover might have tucked tail and run back home where it was safe, and that would’ve been the worst thing ever. Daphne had helped her become Clover in more than nickname only.
She went back to Daphne’s closet and started flipping through the hangers again. If only she could call her mom for a little mother/daughter advice chat. She even went so far as to reach for her phone before drawing back her hand without ever touching her cell. Nope. Her mom would have too many questions.
Have you met someone you like?
When are you going to settle down?
What about that one boy from that one trip? He seemed nice.
It would be a why-do-you-make-such-poor-life-choices and why-don’t-I-have-grandbabies-yet guilt fest from the get-go, just like every time they talked. She was so not in the mood for that. Anyway, her mom would probably tell her to do some tired Audrey Hepburn pearls and a little black dress thing—nothing imaginative, nothing fun. If Clover was anything, it was the total opposite of that, which is why she’d left Sparksville in the first place. It was also exactly why she and her mom rarely got along anymore. All her mom wanted was a mini-me Stepford wife clone. All Clover wanted was to forge her own adventurous way.
Having reached the end of the line when it came to Daphne’s closet, Clover started shoving hangers back down the way she’d already come, hopeful she’d missed something fabulous.
An hour later Clover’s bed was covered in piles of black, gold, hot pink, white, and red full-length dresses and long skirts that had been pulled from hers and Daphne’s closets. She’d tried them all on. Some were too small. Others were just laughably wrong on her. Sawyer was going to be here any minute and Clover stood in the middle of her room in bare feet, a sports bra, hair in a high ponytail, and Daphne’s floor-length, simple black chiffon skirt.
Clover did a quick spin in front of the mirror to watch the skirt twirl. After spending the last hour changing clothes with the seriousness of a woman facing the guillotine, she had to do something just for fun. She was halfway through the turn—her reflection a blur in the mirror—when the idea hit.
She sprinted over to her dresser, yanked open the top drawer and pulled out a sequined black racerback crop top. After nearly dislocating her shoulder wriggling out of the sports bra from hell, she put on an equally uncomfortable strapless bra and slipped on the top. It came to rest at the bottom of her rib cage, showing off the three inches of pale skin above the skirt’s waistband. A pair of strappy designer-knockoff black stilettos and a pair of chandelier earrings with sparkling fake emeralds completed the look.
One look in the mirror and Clover’s nerves evaporated into mist. The outfit wasn’t Harbor City socialite material, but neither was she—and thank God for that. She grabbed her phone, snapped a selfie, and sent it to Daphne.
Daphne: OMG yes!!!
Clover: You really think?
Daphne: Fuck yes. You slay! Hate missing this.
Clover: Miss you, too. Catch up tomorrow?
Daphne: Hells yes. Croissants and coffee on me.
Clover’s phone vibrated in her hand.
The number that flashed on the screen was the one Amara had given her for Sawyer. The text read: Now.
Clover: Gotta go.
Daphne: Kill ’em with hotness!
Clover: xoxo
Hustling as quick as she could in the steep heels, Clover dropped her phone and her lipstick into a little purse as she quick-stepped it to the door. She paused at the front door long enough to take in a deep breath, steel her spine, and give herself a ten-second pep talk.
You’re there to do your job. Don’t let all the rich bitches scare you.
With that, she opened the door and hurried out into the evening and toward the ebony Town Car double parked in front of her building.
…
Sawyer scrolled through email on his phone while he cooled his heels in the backseat of his chauffeured car. Still no response from Mr. Lim about the tweaked proposal he’d sent last week. Something was wrong—that Sawyer couldn’t pinpoint the problem made him twitch. Deals like this one didn’t come along every day, and Sawyer wasn’t about to miss out on it. Whatever it took, he was going to land it.
“Sir,” his driver said. “I believe your date has arrived.”