And I feel like the sludge leftover in the pan after everyone else has eaten all of the grits—dried up and leftover and ready to be washed down the drain and put out of my misery—while her olive skin is glowing and her makeup is flawless and her eyes are bright and clear, unlike the rest of us.
“Oh my god, you must be Begonia! We are going to be best friends. Do you like kale smoothies? Say no. Please say no. If Mildred makes me eat one more kale smoothie, I’m divorcing her, and the only thing that ever works to get me off the hook is I don’t want to make other people watch me drink that shit.”
“Begonia, meet my cousin, Keisha,” Hayes says. “Keisha, let Begonia go. She’s in desperate need of a nap and a shower and dinner away from you.”
“Cousin?” I echo faintly.
I’m still getting squeezed to death by the tiny rock star. A rock star who’s married, apparently. This is what I get for not reading the gossip pages.
“I’m the black sheep,” Keisha whispers dramatically. “Can you imagine the Rutherfords being related to a lesbian?”
A smile plays at Hayes’s lips. “Stop it. We claim you in public. Sometimes in private too.”
“It’s scandalous,” Keisha assures me, like she likes the idea of being scandalous.
“Hyacinth would adore you,” I blurt.
“Oh my god, is she secretly your wife and you’re using Hayes as your beard? Begonia and Hyacinth! That’s adorable! Mildred? Millie? Honey, you need to change your name to Neesha so we can be as cute as Begonia and Hyacinth, mm-kay?”
“Stop making me out to be a shrew, you drama queen,” an affectionate voice calls back. “If anyone’s changing their name, it’s you, to Kildred, Killie for short, because that’s what you’re doing to all of us. You’re killie us.”
“Keisha.” Hayes has pulled out the Boss Voice. “Let Begonia go. You can interrogate her later. Possibly next year. Or next decade.”
“He is such an old maid,” Keisha whispers to me. “Come join us. Dad’s here, and he whipped up some of his famous guacamole, and Millie made her famous sangria, and Aunt G asked the chef to actually make a real meal, so we’re having picanha and p?o de queijo.”
“Brazilian steak and cheese bread,” Hayes murmurs to me.
Keisha rolls her eyes at him. “Don’t be so boring. Which would you rather eat, Begonia, steak and cheese bread, or picanha and p?o de queijo? And wait until you try the fried bananas. Oh. My. God.”
“The guacamole?” I say.
She laughs, then beams at Hayes. “Someone I don’t claim to be related to at this exact moment invited Liliane Sussex-Williams. She’s here too.”
“Begonia and I are both eating in my quarters. If you’re still here in the morning, I’ll see you then. Don’t be here in the morning.”
Hayes nudges me to the stairs.
Marshmallow sticks to his side.
Nikolay gives me a hurry up look, and so I do.
But first, I smile at Keisha. “It was nice to meet you.”
“Oh my god, same. We’re going to be—”
“Hello, Hayes.”
Holy. Mother. Forking. Cannonballs.
I have no idea who the woman swinging her hips as she strolls into the foyer is, but she owns this place. She’s tall and slender, white, with thick chestnut hair, symmetrical features, bright green eyes, and her clothes fit her as though the entire reason pantsuits were invented was so that this woman could one day wear them.
She’s what you’d get if Bella Hadid had a love child with Marilyn Monroe, except instead of being carried in a uterus, she was incubated inside the rarest rose and infused with the essence of phoenix wings and golden unicorn horns.
And she’s holding a hand out to Hayes as if she expects him to kiss it.
He could have this, and I asked him to have sex with me purely for the sake of helping me get back in the saddle.
No wonder he turned me down and has been avoiding talking to me about it ever since, except to kiss me when we have an audience to make it look like he wants to tear my clothes off.
And despite knowing he doesn’t actually want me, a very large, very angry green beast roars to life inside me.
“Hi!” I leap in front of him, take the goddess’s hand—and yes, I have to reach about as high as my nose to grab it—and jerk it down to waist-level to pump it. “I’m Begonia, and oh my god, I can’t believe I’m meeting Angelina Jolie. Hayes. Why didn’t you tell me Angie would be here? Can I call you Angie? Oh my god. Can we get a selfie?”