The Last Eligible Billionaire(53)

“This is all your house?” I whisper to Hayes.

“I needed someplace large enough to breathe whenever my mother decided to drop by.”

I snicker-snort. It echoes in the massive foyer, and the sound of my own snicker-snort echoing makes me involuntarily do it again, until I’m at risk of laughing until I’m crying.

Have I ever been this tired in my life?

If Hyacinth were here, she’d tell me I’d hit the dangerous side of slap-happy and needed a cheeseburger, a vodka chaser, and bed immediately.

But Hyacinth isn’t here, which means I’m leaning on Hayes’s arm and trying to telegraph to him that that’s exactly what I need when there’s a squeal, then a flash of sparkly red, and the next thing I know, a literal rock star is shoving me out of the way and leaping on him.

“Hayes! You’re back!”

Keisha Kourtney is decked out in a red sequin bodysuit and cape, her platform red sequin boots hooked behind Hayes’s back as she presses a resounding kiss to his cheek, which he tolerates with a level of affection that quite honestly pisses me off. Her short, jet-black hair is shaved on one side and dangles to her chin on the other, and sparkly diamond earrings lined with ruby chips dangle from her ears.

“Quit being a showboat,” he tells her as he pulls her off of him and sets her back on her feet. “What are you wearing? Can you be a little more ridiculous?”

She grins widely and turns to me, instantly smothering me in a massive hug. In her platform boots, she barely comes up to my chin. There’s more superstar per square inch in this woman than should be possible, and I want to adore her for it, but I can’t quite get there, because she just jumped my boyfriend.

An actual damn rock star. Molesting my boyfriend in front of me.

My fake boyfriend, but she doesn’t know that.

And I feel like the sludge leftover in the pan after everyone else has eaten all of the grits—dried up and leftover and ready to be washed down the drain and put out of my misery—while her olive skin is glowing and her makeup is flawless and her eyes are bright and clear, unlike the rest of us.

“Oh my god, you must be Begonia! We are going to be best friends. Do you like kale smoothies? Say no. Please say no. If Mildred makes me eat one more kale smoothie, I’m divorcing her, and the only thing that ever works to get me off the hook is I don’t want to make other people watch me drink that shit.”

“Begonia, meet my cousin, Keisha,” Hayes says. “Keisha, let Begonia go. She’s in desperate need of a nap and a shower and dinner away from you.”

“Cousin?” I echo faintly.

I’m still getting squeezed to death by the tiny rock star. A rock star who’s married, apparently. This is what I get for not reading the gossip pages.

“I’m the black sheep,” Keisha whispers dramatically. “Can you imagine the Rutherfords being related to a lesbian?”

A smile plays at Hayes’s lips. “Stop it. We claim you in public. Sometimes in private too.”

“It’s scandalous,” Keisha assures me, like she likes the idea of being scandalous.

“Hyacinth would adore you,” I blurt.

“Oh my god, is she secretly your wife and you’re using Hayes as your beard? Begonia and Hyacinth! That’s adorable! Mildred? Millie? Honey, you need to change your name to Neesha so we can be as cute as Begonia and Hyacinth, mm-kay?”

“Stop making me out to be a shrew, you drama queen,” an affectionate voice calls back. “If anyone’s changing their name, it’s you, to Kildred, Killie for short, because that’s what you’re doing to all of us. You’re killie us.”

“Keisha.” Hayes has pulled out the Boss Voice. “Let Begonia go. You can interrogate her later. Possibly next year. Or next decade.”

“He is such an old maid,” Keisha whispers to me. “Come join us. Dad’s here, and he whipped up some of his famous guacamole, and Millie made her famous sangria, and Aunt G asked the chef to actually make a real meal, so we’re having picanha and p?o de queijo.”

“Brazilian steak and cheese bread,” Hayes murmurs to me.

Keisha rolls her eyes at him. “Don’t be so boring. Which would you rather eat, Begonia, steak and cheese bread, or picanha and p?o de queijo? And wait until you try the fried bananas. Oh. My. God.”

“The guacamole?” I say.

She laughs, then beams at Hayes. “Someone I don’t claim to be related to at this exact moment invited Liliane Sussex-Williams. She’s here too.”

“Begonia and I are both eating in my quarters. If you’re still here in the morning, I’ll see you then. Don’t be here in the morning.”

Hayes nudges me to the stairs.

Marshmallow sticks to his side.

Nikolay gives me a hurry up look, and so I do.

But first, I smile at Keisha. “It was nice to meet you.”

“Oh my god, same. We’re going to be—”

“Hello, Hayes.”

Holy. Mother. Forking. Cannonballs.

I have no idea who the woman swinging her hips as she strolls into the foyer is, but she owns this place. She’s tall and slender, white, with thick chestnut hair, symmetrical features, bright green eyes, and her clothes fit her as though the entire reason pantsuits were invented was so that this woman could one day wear them.