Page 210 of Playing With Fire

I check my reflection, smoothing a hand over my dress.

My hair has held up surprisingly well. The makeup artist Bishop arranged this afternoon worked some kind of miracle, giving me soft smoky eyes and lips that look considerably more polished than my usual tinted balm.

I barely recognize myself. Not in a bad way. For once, I don't feel like the girl trying to fit into someone else's world.

I feel pretty.

I feel grown-up.

I feel like I belong here.

And then the bathroom door opens.

Two women step inside, talking over each other.

I recognize one from earlier. Tall, blonde, wearing a sleek burgundy gown that probably costs more than my rent would've been if I'd actually found an apartment.

“I'm telling you, he's not interested,” she says.

“Who?”

“Bishop.”

My hand stills against the counter.

Of course. Because apparently the universe has a sick sense of humor.

“He brought someone,” the other woman says.

The blonde laughs. “Please. Everyone knows that’s Declan Beckett's little sister.”

“Seriously?”

“Apparently she's staying with him.”

“That's convenient.”

“It's not like that. They're practically family.”

I turn toward the paper towels, shrinking into myself a little, trying to figure out if I can sneak past them to leave. Probably should. Instead, I dry my hands.

“Well, that explains the date,” the second woman says. “I thought she seemed a little different for him.”

“Different is one word for it.”

There's a small laugh.

“She's cute, I guess. In an ordinary sort of way.”

“Definitely not his usual type.”

“No kidding. The women he normally brings to these things could fit into runway samples.”

My fingers tighten around the paper towel. There it is.

The comparison I spent years making in my own head, delivered by two women who don't even know me.

The blonde continues. “It's sweet, though. Bringing her along so she doesn't feel left out.”