Page 87 of Cinderella Is Faking It

“I didn’t say that. I’m not. Uuuh I’m… at the… Dlogiram.”

“That’s just Marigold backwards.”

“Oh,” she choked on her laugh, “mirror.”

“I’m picking you up in twenty.” I was out of my chair in a flash. Del didn’t so much as sip champagne, and she had gone to High Tea. And from the sounds of it, she hadn’t known how high the uppity ladies at the Marigold liked to drink their tea. “How much cake did you eat?”

“You need lipstick.”

“I need lipstick?” I asked, engaging her nonsensical thought process if it meant keeping her on the line, while I took the stairs down to the garage. The elevator would have cut off our call.

“As a disguise.”

“Why do I need a disguise?”

“Because it’s for women. Or naked.”

“Naked?” My steps faltered.

“The men are naked.”

I ignored the thundering beat behind my temples at the thought of her surrounded by a bunch of naked men. She wasn’t anywhere sleazy. Just somewhere women with too much money wanted to feel a little scandalized. Those naked men were either servers or dancers. I doubted Del got too cozy with any of them. “Don’t worry, I have my lipstick and my high heels in the trunk.”

“Good.”

“Keep talking,” I ordered as I got in the car and connected my phone to the Bluetooth.

“I don’t want to go home.”

“You’re not staying at the Marigold,” I replied and wove my car out of the garage and onto the street.

“Noooo, I don’t want to go home home home.Home.” She giggled again, a squeaky snort escaping. “Humhumhum.”

“You can stay at my place,” I replied.

“No.”

“Del-”

“You said your bed is only for sex.”

I had said something along those lines, and she seemed to be one of those people who got extremely literal when tripping. So instead of arguing about my bed’s purpose, I just said: “You can sleep on the sofa.”

“Okay. Wait. Cake.”

“No, hey, Del, no more cake.”

“But it’s chocolate.”

God, she needed it spelled out for her. “Pot brownies, sweetheart. It’s pot brownies.”

“Cupcakes!” she squeaked before the line went dead. Fuck. She was going to be the death of me. I pushed the gas pedal down harder and wove the car through the streets of Boston like I was gunning to make the Grand Prix.

The Marigold was a good 30 minutes outside the city. I made it in 22 minutes. 22 minutes of being unable to get Del back on the line. From the outside the Marigold looked like a small, luxury country club and spa. Nothing to raise your brows at. If you ignored the fact that the women in there either ran the east coast or were married to men that did. I threatened at least three people, that I didn’t want to make enemies of, to get in, but the thought of Del in that shark tank, tripping, surrounded by men who liked to be ogled at by women all day... Only one of them had to figure out that he could make millions off a sex tape with a rich girl while she was wasted.

Scarlett stopped me with her arms crossed in front of her chest when I finally reached the doors of the Lavender Room. “I don’t even want to know how you got in,” she snapped her fingers, “but you can march that pretty ass right back out.”

“Where is she?” I snarled.