Queen of Love

Chapter 17

“Casper? Casper!” Genevieve tracked down her event planner before he dipped into the kitchen to check on the cooks. “Casper, darling, please tell me I didn’t forget what time the party starts. It’s seven, yes?”

A balding man with an eye for finesse pivoted halfway to the kitchen and sniffed the air Genevieve had dutifully pumped into the main house of Orchid Grove. “Cocktails begin at 5:30. You’ve got five hours to look fabulous.”

“That’s not what I’m… nevermind. Thank you, Casper.”

She let her event planner go before he revolted over her meddling. Casper is one of the best, but he’s so picky about who he lets hire him. Wendy Ahn was on his blacklist, for example – she meddled and complained too much, according to him. Genevieve, however, was more than welcome to purchase his services whenever she had a book club, birthday party, or “just because” garden soiree that was meant to show off how perfect her flowers were once again. Hell, the man had planned the very intimate party to honor her parents’ death twenty years before!

As much as Genevieve loved a good party, she always left their preparations to the professionals. Knowing Casper had a handle on things meant she could freak out about the most important part of the day.

It took her five minutes to rush up to her suite and change out of her linen day-dress and into something she deemed cuter. While keeping one eye on her phone, always no more than two feet away from her line of sight, she stripped down to her underwear to redo her hair and makeup before shimmying into the lavender slip dress that accentuated her figure, boasted her breasts, and made her makeup pop without looking like she did it on purpose. All while sacrificing a sliver of comfort.

Her phone lit up with a notification from her Singaporean driver the moment she selected the perfect earrings to pair with her dress.

“ETA five minutes, Lady Liu,” wrote Wesley the driver.

She reoriented her demeanor with a deep, meditative breath. One that was knocked out of her when Casper called to ask if she preferred the capers served with lemon or lime. “We can’t do both,” he insisted. “Assert yourself, Ms. Liu. Your guests will be either struck by the zesty conversation starter that is the lemon, or subdued into a calming time by the bold lime.”

“Lemon,” she said, without thinking. As soon as she hung up, Wesley pinged her from the front gate. “Shit.”

She wanted to be in the front hall by the time her guest arrived. Instead, she was barely at the top of the staircase, breathless and flushed from exertion.

“Hey!” The first step off the top of the grand staircase almost ended with Genevieve’s humiliating demise. She caught herself at the last second, saving her heel from such imminent danger that Genevieve was compelled to congratulate herself and send a play-by-play to Wendy Ahn later that evening. Assuming Wendy wasn’t the first one fashionably late to that night’s party. “You’re finally here! I hope the trip wasn’t too cumbersome.”

Aya could have looked a lot worse for a first-class flight between Narita Airport and Singapore. Never mind the air-conditioned ride in my Bentley from the airport to here. Wesley had been briefed about everything that morning. While it wasn’t unusual for him to pick up people at the airport on his employer’s behalf, he didn’t usually hear it from Genevieve herself.

Yet it was made clear this was a VIPassenger, which was more important than a “very important passenger.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a better flight in my life.” Aya hesitated to embrace Genevieve in the middle of the foyer, leaving it up to the flustered hostess to fling her arms around her girlfriend’s body and plant a kiss on her cheek. “Nor have you ever looked better.”

Brunhilda, the half-Malay half-German steward, approached from behind with a knowing look. Genevieve ignored her. “I can’t believe how sweet you are after a long trip.”

“You make it sound like I rode in the cargo bay between Tokyo and New York.”

As Wesley brought in Aya’s two large bags, Brunhilda darted forward. “The guest suite, ma’am?” she asked Genevieve in Malay.

“The master suite will suffice,” Genevieve responded.

“Ooh.” As Brunhilda rolled one bag and carried the other to the service elevator behind the front bathroom, Aya put her hands on her hips and surveyed the room. She was delightful in a simple gray button-up shirt and a pair of travel slacks that continuously drew the eye to her grabbable ass. Genevieve would refrain, however. “I’ve never heard you speak in any language besides English and what you call Japanese.”

Genevieve knew friendly teasing when she heard it. “Stick around here long enough over the weekend and you’ll hear me speak plenty of languages.” She smoothed the wrinkles from Aya’s shirt, aware that many of her staff were eyeing them from their doorways. “Remember, almost everyone here will speak fluent English.”

”Is that a warning?”

Genevieve turned to the staircase. The fact Aya wasn’t wearing a tie she could pull with her was a travesty. “More like a reminder to watch what you say. We can’t get away with much until we’re in my room.”

“I thought I heard ‘master suite’ in that string of Malay.”

When Genevieve took the first few steps by herself, she made sure to sway her hips, catching Aya’s attention. “Wait until you see it. Ah, wait until you see my tub.”

”Is it bigger than the one in Ikebukuro?”

“At least three times as much.”

Aya finally followed her up. “Sounds like a grand waste of water, if you ask me.”

“That’s why I only use it with other people.”