“Keep your conversation focused on what a guest at this event would say. And you look fine,” I say, swatting his hand away as it again reaches for his tie.
“Justfine?” he asks as we approach the torch-lined entry point under an arch.
Before I can respond, a man in a suit asks, “Might I see your invitations?”
“Of course.” Rook’s voice is a little too loud as he reaches into his pocket. I can tell he’s starting to panic.
“Other pocket, dear,” I say in a mid-Atlantic accent. I turn to the attendant as I lay a possessive hand on Rook’s chest. “Honestly, he’d lose his head if it wasn’t attached. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
The attendant laughs politely at my joke, as Rook hands over two velvet-lined invitations for Mr.and Mrs.Lapicki hosted by Rob Jurski and Christine Horridge-Shale. Once they’re out of Rook’s hands, he stiffens as though he’s holding his breath. I rub my hand along his forearm, trying to calm him as I breathe in counts of five, and wait.
When using an alias, it’s usually best to keep it as close to your real name as possible so you don’t forget it. But Rook and I didn’t have a choice. Or should I say Rob and Christine?
Or should I say Mr.and Mrs.Lapicki?
Here’s where things get complicated.
We’re not at a normal gala, and those aren’t normal tickets.
Since the invitees are from all over the world, we made it easy onourselves and waited to grab the invites the night before, when most out-of-towners had already arrived in Los Angeles. We gave Ezra a list of names, and he was back within six hours, which, given LA traffic, was nothing short of a miracle.
He met Poppy and me back at our Airbnb—a vacation home off the PCH that overlooks the ocean. Alright, we didn’t actually rent it. And maybe it’s not even an Airbnb. But no one was using it, so I don’t see what the big deal is.
Ezra slipped through the balcony window instead of using the door like a normal person. We’d already dismantled the entire security system, so I’m not sure why he was sneaking in other than just to show off.
“Here,” he said, tossing five velvet tickets onto the kitchen island’s marble countertop, already littered with cardstock and hot glue and calligraphy pens.
I gave him a wide smile. “You may not be useless after all.”
He wrinkled his brow. “You’re the one who chased me all over Times Square begging for my help.”
I flipped through the tickets, taking in the velvet border, the shining gold calligraphy, and the stiff cream-colored paper. “You’re the one who got caught. Forgive me if I was a little nervous about your contributions.”
He plopped onto a bar chair. “You know, I might not have done this teaming up thing, but it seems counterproductive to belittle your crew.”
I looked up from the tickets. “You’re not crew yet, New Guy. You’re a…contract employee.”
He pushed his baseball cap over his eyes and leaned his head back. “Yeah, well, as long as I get paid.”
I handed the tickets over to Poppy. “So, you can replicate these?”
Poppy nodded. “Just like Mrs.Gardner’s fifth-grade arts and crafts.”
A few hours later, Ezra was sound asleep, and I had just started to doze off myself when Poppy finished forging the last ticket.
“Done!” she said, nudging my arm so that it was no longer holding up my head.
I blinked, then rubbed my eyes and looked over Poppy’s work. I couldn’t tell the difference between the forgeries and the originals. She handed half of them to me.
“Those are the originals,” she said.
“You sure?”
She gave mea look.
I gave her one back. “Would you double-check for me? Please?”
“Fine,” she said, taking each of the five tickets in turn, eyes closed, fingertips lightly running over them. There was no noise, not really, but I could feel her hum deep in my chest.