“Good luck over there. Those people are feral for the food,” Lexi warns.
I can’t help but laugh at her remark. The people at his opening are ravenous for everything we’ve made tonight. We’re trying our best to keep up with their hunger, but damn, spending money apparently makes people starved.
Before I go, I look at my reflection in the stainless steel refrigerator. My cheeks are flushed from working so hard, and my smooth hair from earlier in the day is gone. Left in its wake is a frizzy mess. Sighing, I take two seconds to try and tame it. I attempt to pull it back in a chic, slicked-back bun. But it doesn’t look as chic as I’d imagined it would.
“Would you rather me take this round?” Lexi asks from behind me.
“No.” I sigh, wiping a bit of flour from my forehead. “This is just going to have to work.”
“I think you look hot as hell. The bun looks good.”
“I don’t have to look hot. I just don’t want to look like I just got electrocuted as I walk around a bunch of people with expensive blowouts.”
“Honestly, they could look better. I feel bad for them if they’re paying good money to have their hair look like that.”
I laugh because she has a point. “I just wish I didn’t look like I’m about to go to church in this outfit.” Luckily, I keep an extra outfit at the shop just in case I have an event I forgot about. Unfortunately for me, I forgot that my spare outfit is a dress that does nothing to accentuate my body. It’s tight around my boobs, and the fabric hugs me oddly in other places. It’s like wearing an ill-fitting paper bag. Just another reason I feel severely out of place at Camden’s stupid opening.
But the people there probably won’t even spare me a second glance while I serve them, so it doesn’t really matter. At least that’s what I tell myself as I pick up a platter and rest it on my shoulder. Every single person at the event feels like they don’t belong in this, and I hate it. I want the rooms to be filled with locals, people who could tell you who makes the best lasagna in town or who is sleeping with who despite being married to other people.
That’s what it was like when the Richardsons still owned it. Sure, people vacationing would stop in. But it still felt like a little piece of Sutten. What Camden has created doesn’t feel like home. Not in the slightest.
Lexi follows me out of the kitchen, holding the door open as I walk over to the gallery. The awning is black with boring block letters. It looks funny next to my bright pink awning. I’ve got greenery outside the front, vines crawling up the fixture to make the atmosphere feel even more cozy.
Next to me sits Ms. Lori’s flower shop. It’s also full of life and color. Camden’s place sticks out next to our buildings like a sore thumb.
A rush of hot air hits me when I walk through the open door of the gallery. With all of the lights shining on the art and all of the people, it feels way warmer in here than it does outside. It’s part of the reason I threw my hair up, needing it off my neck as I carry around the tray and serve people.
These rich people are hungry vultures. The moment they spot me with a tray of new food, they beeline for me, all of them picking the food off the tray before I even have a chance to tell them what it is.
“Are these gluten-free?” one of the women asks, eyeing the rolls like she’s starved.
“Uh, no,” I answer.
She pouts, jutting her bottom lip out so far that it leaves a lipstick stain in the cleft of her chin. “There should be gluten-free options here,” she tells her friend. All her friend does is nod, her mouth too full of the mozzarella ball to say anything else.
I step away from them, hoping to leave the conversation behind. There are plenty of people who don’t care what’s in the food, and they take it without asking any questions.
I didn’t know art could make people so hungry.
Stopping next to a large group of people who all want to take a roll, I let my eyes roam the space. It feels so…clean in here. The walls are white, the concrete has been painted white, and the only splashes of color are the art.
And even a lot of the art is void of color. It’s charcoal or black and white paint. The little bit of color on the walls catches my eye. There’s a section with three different paintings that are vivid. If I didn’t have a swarm of people around me, I’d take a step closer and take a look. Not a single piece of art on the walls has caught my attention tonight except these.
Just then, I see a large figure step into my eyeline. He stands with two other people, the three of them staring at the same pieces I was just admiring from afar.