Best Laid Plans

Party Crasher

Perrie

I check my reflection in the mirror to ensure there's no lipstick on my teeth or a swipe of deodorant somewhere it shouldn't be. I'm wearing a black dress and my favorite pair of heels. The kind of heels that led to the dick diet in the first place. The kind of heels I had on when I had wrapped my legs around Jade's waist two months ago. I look at them ruefully, knowing that tonight the only place they're headed is back into my suitcase the moment I'm done with this event.

I love this dress. It's floor-length, with a long high slit up the left leg. The material has a bit of sparkle to it and flows around my legs as I walk. Sexy, yet not skimpy on fabric or coverage. Tiny spaghetti-sized straps connect the front to the back, leaving my arms and shoulders bare.

My hair is up, the golden strands pulled into a low bun. Simple earrings and a basic black clutch. I don't own anything fancy enough for this event, but I've put together a good façade. I've played up my makeup as befitting of an evening event, spending ten minutes on my eyes alone. Liner, blended shadows, mascara. My brows are plucked to perfection, arched over my blue eyes, making them pop. My lips are covered in a matte berry shade.

I look good if I say so myself.

I scrunch my nose in the mirror at my vanity but looking good soothes the sting of having to sneak into an event to track down my previous hook-up. Ugh, stalking is so not my jam.

With a sigh I drop the room key into my clutch. The pocketbook is mostly for show, because showing up with just a hotel key in my hand would look odd. I'm not staying long enough to warrant bringing even a lipstick, so the only thing in there is my hotel key, my cell phone, a credit card and some cash, just in case.

I feel queasy, which is odd because it's evening and I've yet to experience any sickness during this pregnancy, morning or otherwise. Perhaps I have confrontation sickness, but I'm not normally one to waffle over confrontation. Then again, I've never been in a situation anything like this before, so I should cut myself some slack. With a deep breath I exit my room and make the walk to the convention center adjoining the hotel.

I'm smiling, nausea forgotten and nerves in check when I exit the elevator and cross the glass-encased walkway connecting to the Marriott hotel, where the event is taking place, but it doesn't last long.

They're checking guests at the door.

Checking in, with security flanking the door.

Who besides me could possibly want to crash this? Seriously, who? I can't catch a break. This is freaking ridiculous. I blow out a breath and make a split-second decision to fake it. It's my best option. It's my only option. Besides, people are less likely to question you if you're confident. If you carry yourself with an air of authority people assume you know what you're doing.

I've got this. I'll say I'm with Jade and glide right on in. This level of crazy isn't normally anything I'd stoop to, but I'm desperate. Desperate to find Jade and get this over with, so I don't falter in my stride as I arrive at the table they've set up just outside the ballroom door. There are three women behind the table checking guests in along with two security guards flanking the doorway. The security guards look like rentals from an agency, more for show than actual brute force, but still, it's not like I'm going to attempt to outrun them.

The women look like they're involved with the event. Official. Snooty. Problematic. I continue up to the table anyway because I can't very well turn around now.

"Name?" One of the women looks up from her list, her face bored. She's wearing an elegant name tag with her name engraved on it, identifying her as Margo. There's a table full of identical name tags behind her, which tells me immediately that not only am I supposed to be on a list, but there should also be a matching tag to identify me.