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Her grandmother reached out and felt the fabric of her sleeve before turning the cu over and looking at the stitching. “Very fine work. Please introduce me, or shall I ask Reagan since she’s the one who hand-delivered our invitations.”

Without telling me!?

“I’m just so glad everyone could be here on such short notice,” she replied graciously. “Have you been inside yet?”

“Yeah,” her brother responded. “And bought a couple things already. I think you guys are going to have a huge hit on your hands. I really wanted one of the mugs, but there weren’t any left.”

His genuine disappointment filled her heart. “I’ll get you one.” She smiled. “I happen to know the artists.”

Libby smiled and glad-handed throughout the tent until she finally broke free, checked on the caterer’s tent, and then bolted for the studio. Despite the brisk evening, she was sweaty and happy to get into the building kept cool by industrial fans.

“Wow,” Libby gasped when she stepped inside. Electronic dance music thumped just loud enough to be heard above the roar of the crowd. The fabric panels blocked her view of most

of the space, but it sounded like a least a million people were talking at once.

Antique furniture was interspersed between big metal displays. Everything was full of the most beautiful plates, bowls, cups, and mugs. Most of them had been tagged with red squares bearing names and phone numbers.

“See anything you like?”

Libby turned at the sound of Reagan’s voice behind her.

Her tight, red and black patterned pants hung low on her hips. On top, she wore a loose black shirt and a long pendant with a big chunk of jade at the end. Her sideswiped blonde hair added the perfect complement to her sexy, roguish appearance.

With sweaty palms and a dry mouth, Libby forced herself to speak. “You look gorgeous.”

Reagan pulled her in and kissed the side of her mouth to avoid messing up her lipstick. As she did, Libby found that she liked the slight height advantage her shoes o ered despite being hideously uncomfortable. “You look devastating,” she whispered against the shell of her ear before taking her hand.

“I can’t believe you did all this.” Libby gawked at her surroundings in open astonishment.

“I most definitely didn’t do it by myself. Your sta was a huge help and my friends helped with the final push. They’re all armed with tablets and running around taking payments now. I think you should give them a few days o after this.”

“Don’t worry, they’ll get some very generous paid leave.”

Libby smiled as she was led through a crowd and into a section filled with whimsical lanterns. Half of them already had red tags on them.

“I can’t believe you’ve sold so much of this,” Libby said as they crossed into a space full of geometric animal sculptures.

“Freddie is over the moon. He had some color flyers printed up with his work and they’re flying o his little stand. I think he’s already got a couple of commissions lined up.”

Libby’s chest filled with pride. “You remind him that I’m still his number one patron.”

Reagan chuckled, her dark eyes gleaming under the soft light emanating from one of the hundreds of industrial floor lamps scattered around the place. In that moment, it took Herculean e ort not to confess the emotion bursting from her chest.

“Reagan!” a disembodied voice shouted over the ambient noise. “Code three!”

“What’s that? What’s code three? Is that bad? Why don’t I know the codes?” Libby’s hurried words reflected the anxious energy bubbling up in her body.

Reagan smiled. “Don’t worry. I invited the landlord and that just means he’s here. I’m going to go meet him. Do you think you can make your way to my little corner?”

“Of course, I’ll head that way now,” she replied, figuring she could only get so lost before finding it.

In a flash, Reagan was gone, and Libby was alone in the throng of people she’d barely noticed before. She’d gotten about halfway through the exhibition when a beautiful woman holding a tablet approached her.

“And you must be Elisabeth,” the woman said as if they’d already been speaking.

“Hi, I’m sorry. I don’t know your name,” she said, holding out her hand.

The woman glanced at her hand for a full second before taking it rather limply in hers. “Imani Igwe,” she said, looking Libby right in the eye. “Reagan’s ex-wife.”