Cheating at Solitaire (Cheating at Solitaire #1)(13)
Author: Ally Carter

That’s assuming he wears underwear, her inner Nina chimed, so Julia went outside to take a head-clearing walk.

When she came back, Lance had settled on a station. It was ESPN Classic. Where is the suspense in watching something that happened twenty years ago? When he said, "I remember this game!" it took every ounce of her restraint not to say, "Then why do you need to watch it again?"

Instead, Julia settled herself in the comfy chair and picked up a book. She consoled herself by realizing that at least when he was watching TV, he wasn’t walking around on her creaky floorboards, making more noise than a marching band, disturbing the blessed stillness of her quiet house. Even on the couch, however, he still managed to shatter her peace with the perpetual shaking of ice cubes in his glass of Coke. Full-calorie Coke. Julia winced and Lance asked, "What’s wrong?"

"Nothing. I’m just not used to other people’s noise."

He looked at her as though she’d just told him she kept a UFO in the basement, then went right back to cheering for a team he already knew was going to lose.

She shivered and began to regret telling him where to find the thermostat. Sun streamed through the windows, and outside it had to be near eighty, yet the house was a brisk sixty-nine. She wanted her chenille afghan, but it was beneath his beefy leg.

"You’ve got to watch this shot," he said as he held the remote control like a magic wand that he could use to manipulate the players. "Wait, it’s coming up," he said. "It’s coming . . . it’s …"

The doorbell rang, so Julia had to miss whatever play had happened so many years before. She went to the door and looked through the peephole, thinking it would be Nina or Caroline.

"Yoo-hoo!"

Miss Georgia’s drawl was like sugar dissolving in tea. "Anybody home?"

With one eye glued to the peephole, the surrealness of her life was starting to seep in. There was a man spread across the couch behind her and a porch full of Georgias in front of her. Julia had never felt so trapped. The doorbell rang again and she felt Lance come to stand behind her. "Press?" he asked.

She shook her head, turned the dead bolt, and opened the door.

Pink must have been the color of the day because the Georgias were all decked out in different derivations of the shade: Miss Georgia in fuchsia, Georgia A. in baby-girl, and Georgia B. in magenta. Standing together and leaning forward with grins on their faces, grasping their coordinating handbags, they looked like a float in the Rose Parade, something titled "Tickled Pink."

"Don’t you all look nice!" Julia said, remembering her upbringing.

Georgia A. was all smiles as she said, "We tried calling, but your phone must be off the hook."

"I was afraid we might get some unsettling calls," Julia admitted, a little guilty about that decision.

"Oh, darling," Miss Georgia jumped in. "You don’t owe us any explanation. When I was in the Miss America pageant, I had my line disengaged for three weeks. I know exactly what you’re saying."

"Thank you," Julia said. Noticing the way the three pink flowers seemed to be wilting in the sun, she felt compelled to add, "Won’t you come in?" They didn’t waste one second before plowing past her toward Lance, who was standing between the door and the stairs.

Georgia B. looked him up and down, then said to Miss Georgia, "I think it’s going to fit. Don’t you, Evelyn?" Only then did Julia notice the garment bag that Miss Georgia had draped over one of her impossibly well-toned arms. Miss Georgia answered, "I think it might."

Georgia A. turned to Julia and explained: "When we got home yesterday evening, we remembered that Lance wouldn’t have known to pack his tuxedo," she said in a "we’re so silly" tone of voice, and Julia remembered that the Georgias are not regular people.

Georgia A. continued, saying, "Of course, when I was your age, a man never traveled without at least one formal suit, but I know that times have changed."

Oh, Georgia, Julia thought, you have no idea.

Miss Georgia had taken a tux jacket out of the garment bag and was helping Lance slip it on. The Georgias stood back and admired him as Lance worked his arms back and forth, trying out the fit.

"How does that feel?" Georgia B. asked. "Not too snug, I hope?"

"No," Lance said and grinned at her. "It’s perfect."

There were congratulations all around as the Georgias stood in Julia’s living room, looking excessively proud of themselves. Julia was taken aback when she saw tears swelling in Georgia B.’s eyes. "Georgia," she said, "what’s wrong?"

"Oh, nothing, dear," she said while dabbing at her eyes with a pink handkerchief. "It’s just that Rosemary would be so proud to see this."

Julia couldn’t believe her ears. Aunt Rosemary thought of this? She couldn’t think of a single time in history when Ro-Ro had done anything for anyone. She certainly couldn’t remember Ro-Ro shelling out to buy something that must have cost as much as that tuxedo. "Rosemary bought Lance a tuxedo?" Julia asked, disbelieving.

"No, dear," Georgia B. said, still dabbing at her eyes. "This was Wally’s old tux—the one he wore to their wedding. Yesterday, when she realized how similar he and Lance were, she decided that someone should be getting some good out of it."

So, okay, Ro-Ro had given Lance a sixty-year-old tuxedo— that was more like it. But it was still the favorite tux of her favorite husband, and that fact struck Julia to the bone.

"A cut like that never goes out of style," Georgia A. said, admiring the jacket. "My William had at least twenty tuxedos in his life, and the first one he owned was more in style when he died than the last one he bought. Wally was the same way. Men like that are timeless."

Julia had to admit, Georgia A. had a point.

Like a magnet, her hand was drawn to a piece of nonexistent lint on Lance’s shoulder. Her fingers lingered a little longer than she had intended, and Lance suddenly grabbed her wrist. He put his other arm around her waist and pulled her tightly to him. Electric sparks sizzled up and down her spine. It’s the rug, Julia told herself, definitely static charge. Then, with one fluid, effortless motion, he dipped her low, and her whole world turned upside down. He moved closer and closer, until his face was only inches away. His lips parted as he said, "Wanna go to a party?"

"Yes!" a chorus of high voices cried out.

Julia turned her head to see three pink figures looming overhead, smiling.

Chapter Thirteen  

WAY #52: Be prepared for anything.

Always have at least one ensemble for every occasion: to wedding, funeral, interview, party, etc. After all, some of life’s III biggest moments come up with barely a second’s notice.

ycamore Hills ," Lance said, pondering it. "Where have stone lane, past a guardhouse, and between the eighth and seventeenth fairways. She heard her inner golf announcer whisper, They’re passing through the magnolia groves now, Bob, a dogleg to the right. No wind to speak of. Two hundred yards to the clubhouse and . . . oh, yes, she’s doing it in second gear.

Lance asked, "Was the PGA tour here in 2000 or 2001 ?"

"I really don’t know," Julia answered. And don’t care, I heard that before?"

"Golf," Julia answered as she steered onto a cobble-

( ? ) she thought. But no matter how much the game bored her, she couldn’t deny the beauty of its stage. Sunlight glistened off ponds as daylight fought for its hold on the horizon. The plantation-style clubhouse looked like Tara itself, surrounded by manicured lawns. The whole world seemed Technicolor gorgeous as the valet held Julia’s door and Lance came to stand beside her. She stopped for a moment, looking up at the wide portico stairs that, like Jack’s beanstalk, led to another world—one designed for giants of industry, lazy trust-fund brats, and Georgias. A world where no matter how many bestsellers she wrote, Julia had never belonged.

That is, until she walked in on the arm of Lance Collins.

Climbing the stairs on the arm of a handsome man in a vintage tuxedo, Julia saw Sycamore Hills in an entirely different light. She felt the eyes of strangers on her, a feeling she knew, but the gazes somehow seemed different. These weren’t the Don’t I know her? or Isn’t she famous? looks she’d been getting since Table for One debuted. They certainly weren’t the What’s wrong with her? looks she’d been getting for far longer. These were Oh, what a lovely couple looks, Julia was sure. She jerked her head, trying to see behind her, wondering if she was only standing in between those complimentary glances and the woman they were really for. But no, the only person back there was Archie Givens, a man whose children had once hired an attorney to keep him away from Ro-Ro.

We’re the best-looking people in here, Julia thought, bolstered by the revelation. Of course, we’re also forty years younger. . . . But she still couldn’t help feeling like a Bond girl.

When she saw her least-favorite employee rushing toward them, Julia readied herself for the evening’s ultimate test: This was a man who could make supermodels feel fat, and heads of state inferior. He screeched to a halt in front of them and, to Julia’s amazement, smiled.

"Good evening, ma’am," he said to Julia. "Sir," he addressed Lance. "Welcome to Sycamore Hills. And whom will you be meeting this evening?" he asked, even though Julia knew he was well aware of who she was. Still, he held tight to his podium and his questions, refusing to let anyone or anything rip that power from his bony hands.

"We’re the guests of Rosemary Willis," Julia told him, mustering a smile.

"Excellent," he said, his eyes scanning a list. "Table twenty-seven. Ma’am," he asked, "may I check your wrap?"

Julia looked at her emerald-green shoulder wrap. History told her never to surrender layers when entering the Sycamore Hills ballroom, because while Ro-Ro’s crowd didn’t believe in skimping on the curtains, they weren’t about to turn up the heat. "No, thank you."

"Very well. Enjoy your evening." He ended the statement with a smile, not his usual look of scorn for Julia the dateless leper. Julia felt herself nearly floating toward the ballroom at the rear of the building through a corridor of twenty-foot ceilings and more crown molding than a palace, and she couldn’t resist stealing a glance at Lance.

"So, what do you think?"

He let out a low whistle in response.

Since meeting Lance, Julia had covered the full range of emotions, from calm serenity to blinding panic, and now she felt herself looping around to giddy. A sudden burst of laughter shot out of her so fast that she threw her hand to her lips as if to catch the laugh and cram it back down her throat.

"What?" he said. "What is it?" He pulled his hands to his face and started wiping away nonexistent crumbs.

Another giggle from Julia.

"Stop laughing," he said.

But it was out of her control. "Look at us," she said between fits, as regally dressed older couples inched past them, pushing walkers and dragging oxygen tanks. "Would you look at us?" She held her hands away from her body so he could get the full effect. Then she leaned closer and said, "We’re on the lam—in formal wear. I thought this kind of thing only happened on Days of Our Lives."