“I was also receiving some solid misinformation from another guy he has bad blood with.” The allusion to Wickham makes my skin crawl. I called Marley yesterday, claiming Darcy had recommended her as a character reference for Mr. George Wickham, which isn’t too much of a stretch. She went off, revealing an endearing protectiveness for Darcy and no shortage of colorful descriptors for the “feckless con” who betrayed him. Her input made a text to the Twins all the more imperative, though I only heard back from Ginn, who sent a thumbs-up and reminded me they weren’t on the schedule at Meryton this weekend.

I shake my head. “Anyway, it was easier to believe what he had to say about Darcy because it jibed with my first impression.”

“Nothing like a little confirmation bias to skew your perspective.”

I groan. “You sound like Gales.”

“It’s sexually transmitted. Anyway, I have no doubt that you and this Darcy will find a room with a proper door and hash it out,” she says with an air of finality. “How is the show? I looked up their website. It needs some work.”

“I’m hoping Charles will get on that once the building changes hands. Probably when they remodel.”

Chloe sips from her champagne flute. When I get to “remodel,” she lowers the glass. “You still working toward that?”

“Yes,” I say, though I’m telling my armrest, not her. “It was a good distraction while Jane was streaming episodes of Dog Whisperer.”

Chloe waits me out, sipping contentedly at her drink.

“Hold on.” I reach for my bag, pulling out my Meryton folder. Among the pages is the print for my playing card. I hand it to her as I flip through the drawings, trying to find the best place to start. “Here’s this, by the way.”

“What—ohmigod! You’re a naughty kitten! Holy hell, woman. That’s awesome. What’s it from?”

I explain the cards and pasties and how I get a commission, mostly to brace myself for sharing the folder. I don’t doubt she recognizes it as stalling, though I appreciate that she lets me get away with it.

“Has your fellow seen this?” She hands back the photo.

Part of me feels like I should correct her for the “your fellow” line, but I enjoy hearing it too much. “Yes. Though not this large. He bought a deck of cards the first time he came to the show.”

“We’re coming to Saturday’s show then, obviously.”

“There’s a two-top with your names on it.”

“Bueno. Now, gimme that.” She reaches for the folder. “I want to bear witness to your triumphant return to the world of interior design.”

“Easy with the hyperbole,” I say, passing the file. “Nothing’s been decided yet.”