Page 309 of A Taste of Vanilla

I should check the lease.

She stops in front of me. Up close, she’s worse.

Not prettier. Worse.

“Oliver?” she asks, her voice smooth.

That’s weird. “That depends.”

Her mouth curves.

Halston goes very still beside me the way she always does when she smells plot.

Marley, from the chair, whispers, “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

The woman extends her hand over the bar. “Matilda Rhodes.”

The name hits the room before I can respond.

It moves through the Vipers players first.

A ripple.

Posture changing. Expressions tightening. Recognition. Surprise. Unease.

Then through everyone else.

Matilda Rhodes. Even I know the name. Everyone does.

Billionaire heiress. Tabloid disaster. Party girl. Champagne menace. Daughter of Arthur Rhodes, the recently deceased owner of the Baltimore Vipers.

Arthur Rhodes, whose death has been splashed across every local news outlet for two weeks.

Arthur Rhodes, whose will apparently left the team to his only daughter.

The daughter whose photos I have seen on screens behind bar patrons’ shoulders for years.

Matilda stumbling out of clubs in Paris.

Matilda on yachts.

Matilda throwing champagne on some heir in Ibiza.

Matilda at charity galas wearing diamonds and looking bored enough to bankrupt a man for sport.

And now Matilda is standing in my bar with red lipstick, dead eyes, and her hand extended like this is the beginning of something I will dislike intensely.

I glance down at her hand and then back up at her face.

“I don’t do autographs,” I say.

A few players choke.

Halston presses her lips together.

Warren stares at me, almost looking panicked.

Matilda’s smile sharpens. “Good,” she says. “I don’t ask for permission.”