Change With Me (With Me in Seattle 17.5)

I glance down and notice that the robe has opened enough to show some cleavage.

“It got the job done, but I don’t plan a repeat performance.”

He smacks my ass lightly. “Okay then. I’m hungry.”

“Let’s eat.”

* * * *

Oh, God, why did I come here?

I was just getting settled into this crazy little life with Zane, and now I’m at a girls’-night-out party with Natalie Williams and all of her friends.

There must be twenty-five women here.

Gorgeous women.

The gene pool in this room is so impressive, I don’t even know what to say.

Like Zane, I don’t know what happens at this kind of thing. I’ve never been invited to one. I pictured five or six women sitting around with drinks, trying on makeup with a dozen cupcakes sitting nearby.

This is not that.

Not even a little.

Luke and Natalie’s house is…huge. With gorgeous water views, the place is something you’d see in a magazine. A wall of windows has been opened like an accordion so there’s indoor and outdoor seating.

And if you choose outdoor, there’s a pool.

The massive kitchen is covered in food, and the promised cupcakes are topped with pink frosting and little decals that have Amelia’s logo on them. There’s a separate bar area where a beautiful redhead shakes a shaker and fills pretty glasses with lemon wedges on the rim.

Amelia herself, whom I recognize from her YouTube tutorials, is organizing brushes and copious amounts of makeup on the dining room table that, by my calculations, comfortably seats twelve.

I do not belong here.

Going out for dinner is one thing, but this? This is another thing entirely.

Just as I’m about to text Zane and tell him to turn around and come back for me, Natalie rushes over and takes my hand.

“Oh, I’m so glad you came.”

“Really?”

She laughs and leads me into the room. “Yes, absolutely. We went a little overboard, but this is a celebration, so I’m not sorry. Now, for some introductions. I don’t expect you to remember everyone’s names.”

But I will. I’m used to remembering a school full of kids’ names.

“Hi, I’m Meg,” a pretty woman says. “We’re a lot to handle, but we’re a lot of fun.”

I meet Jules, Samantha, Brynna, and Stacy, who are all in the kitchen, hovering over the food.

Amelia, and her sister, Anastasia, greet me at the dining table and then lead me outside to meet a dozen more women.

Once we’ve fully made the rounds, Natalie gestures and says, “That’s all of us. Again, I don’t expect you to remember. Just ask, or say, ‘Hey you.’”

“I’ll remember,” I assure her.

“Okay, pop quiz,” Lexi says. “Who am I?”

“You’re Lexi.” I start to point and rattle off the names. “Nic, Maeve, Izzy, Maggie. Meredith, Alecia, Joy.”

I move around the room and correctly list everyone’s names.

“I’m a teacher, you guys. Names are my superpower.”

“Wow,” Natalie breathes.

“Even I don’t remember everyone’s names all of the time, and I’m related to these people,” Jules says with a laugh. “Here, you earned this.”

She passes me a plate and leads me to the buffet table. To my utter shock, I’m simply brought into the fold as if I’ve been here forever.

As if they’ve been my friends since childhood.

The food is ridiculously good, and the company even better. When Maeve offers me a lemon drop, she sits right next to me, and we chat for about thirty minutes.

“Okay, Aubrey,” Amelia says, crooking her finger at me. “Your turn, girl. Let’s do a little makeover.”

“Oh.” I wave her off and shake my head. “That’s not necessary. I love your products, and I’m happy to buy them.”

“You might as well let her play,” Nic says with a laugh. “This is what she lives for.”

“You have such great skin,” Amelia says as I sit in her chair, and she pushes my hair away from my face. “I’d kill for your cheekbones.”

“Oh, please.”

I know that I’m deficient in the looks department. I can’t hold a candle to the other women in this room. I have a crooked nose, and there’s just nothing special about the way I look.

It’s okay.

“Honey, it’s true,” Amelia says softly. “Your skin is the bomb. What products do you use?”

“Soap and water?”

She pauses, staring at me for half a second. “That’s it?”

“And a little moisturizer.”

“Okay, now I hate you. Do you know how many women would kill for skin like this? Can I recommend some things?”

“Are you kidding? Of course.”

Amelia Montgomery, makeup mogul, is giving me advice on my skin. Whose life is this?

“Okay, I want to stress sunscreen. I do see a little sun damage here.”

“I grew up in Arizona.”

“Ah, yes, that explains it. I have a great SPF that isn’t oily. I’ll give you some.” She goes into detail about serums and moisturizers, and I must get glassy-eyed because she laughs and pats my shoulder. “I know, it’s a lot.”

“It sounds expensive,” I admit.