Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 132097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Sigh.
“Are you kidding, girl? Your ass will give all the old dudes a heart attack. You’ll be the star of the show.” Margot turns to the assistant, who’s looking at me with a critical expression. “Accessories?”
“Gold,” she says immediately. “Subtle.”
“Find me something nice,” Margot instructs, and the woman scuttles off.
I look at my best friend, who’s totally energized by the challenge.
Me.
I’m the challenge.
A doll for her to dress up. And it’s not that I don’t trust her fashion sense, but I’m not sure her sense of fashion is me.
See: this dress.
On the hanger, it looked incredible. All red satin, off one shoulder with a slit up the opposite leg, skirting the line between elegant and showy. The chic girls in Margot’s world of money and fashion wouldn’t look out of place in it.
I’m so not a chic chick.
The assistant returns with an elegant gold necklace and matching earrings with—holy shit, are those diamonds?
I’m going pale, thinking about the cost. But did she really say Ethan gave me an unlimited wardrobe allowance?
“I don’t know. The dress is an attention grabber, do I really need earrings?” I hesitate, but Margot grabs my hand before I can hand them back.
“Wear it all! You want the attention. Besides, it’s all on Ethan’s dime.”
“What if I break them?”
“You won’t.” Margot’s tone is dismissive. “Okay, let’s see. Yeah, I think we should bring up the hem a little. What do you think?”
The assistant nods and pulls out some pins. I stand still as they map out a couple alterations—shortening the hem and subtly changing the angle of the single shoulder.
“I’ll have it ready this afternoon, Miss Blackthorn.”
“Perfect!” Margot claps her hands. “In the meantime, we’ll work on your makeup.”
Makeup?
Oh God.
But before I can fuss I’m manhandled out of my dress and Margot reveals the arsenal of high-end makeup she’s brought with her, filling in the gaps with new cosmetics she needs from the store.
“The Blackthorns have worked with this place forever. Even Mom still orders from here with everything in New York,” she says. “By the time we’re done, they’ll have your alterations wrapped up.”
I shake my head, biting my lip.
“Margot, I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can. All you have to do is pretend my darling brother isn’t an enormous jackass and be your gorgeous self. You’ve got that down.”
“But everyone there will be rich. Like, daughters of former presidents and women way smarter than me.” All thrown together in a palatial Maine compound everyone else will be used to.
Not to mention a date with Ethan flipping Blackthorn of all people, however fake.
A date.
It’s the sort of thing half the girls in Portland would’ve killed for.
How many lined up for him years ago, begging for it before he joined the Army? And since he became the literal heir to a multibillion-dollar company—
Holy crap, I feel vertigo.
Margot sits me down and gets to work, using more makeup than I’ve ever seen in my life.
I’m a ‘slap on some mascara and I’ll be fine’ kind of girl.
Margot? No way.
Our complexions are so different with her getting sun in her travels and daily walks, plus the odd trip to Arizona or the Caribbean a few times a year.
She has some new foundation and applies it with a heavy hand, concealing flaws I didn’t know I had.
At least this way, they won’t see it when I blush.
Which I inevitably will.
She sculpts and contours my face, fashioning cheekbones from hills. My eyes are artificially widened, the subtle smoky eye she’s gone for deepening their natural green.
By the time she’s finished, I barely recognize myself.
But I do look like the Hattie Sage my mom would love, the girl with money and confidence overflowing.
“See?” Margot coos, blowing on her brush like it’s a smoking gun. “Stunning!”
I look like a mermaid with arched brows and tinted lips, big eyes, and highlights that make me sparkle.
The attendant brings the dress back while we make more adjustments, and with Margot’s help, I stuff myself into it.
Margot then does her own makeup, spending a lot less time on her own face (and still looking incredible), and then sliding into her own black dress far more gracefully.
Compared to me, she looks radiant, yet subdued.
The wick beside the flame.
How weird when it’s always been the opposite.
Again, I can’t do this.
“Just have fun. You’ve got this,” Margot says brightly. As if I’m not seconds from vomiting all over this very fancy tiled floor.
“I don’t have anything.”
Her phone chirps. “The limo’s here. Are you ready?”
Hell no.
I’m wearing heels that threaten to break my ankle with every step. The dress reflects the light and my thigh is visible.
Despite the expensive perfume, I’m positive someone will still smell my sweat under it.
“Come on, let’s go dazzle,” she says as she leads me through the shop, hips swaying with every movement.
I try to inhale some courage as we emerge outside and find a limo pulled up beside the sidewalk. A white limo with tinted windows and a crisply dressed driver standing by the door, ready to help us inside.