“These are not my people.” Natalie watched a woman walk by wearing a necklace that was probably worth more than the vase. “I’m a working girl. A bookseller. I have nothing in common with them.”

“Too late to turn back now, Cinderella,” said Cleo. “Quit looking so panicked.”

“I wish I had your confidence.” She eyed Cleo’s feather tattoo, her swath of pink hair, and the way she carried herself, as though strutting in a couture runway show.

Surveying the polished crowd, she saw Bertie and Grandy sampling canapés of caviar and truffles and tried to relax a little. Then she thought about Peach and tensed up again. This was not his crowd, either.

“Now what are you worrying about?” asked Cleo.

“He is going to be so out of place here,” said Natalie.

“Who? Peach?” Cleo grinned. “Think he’ll wear his tool belt?”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have encouraged him to come. I mean, he deserves to be included, but is he going to feel totally awkward?”

“He’s a big boy. He’ll deal.” Cleo fanned herself as a gorgeous woman walked by, shadowed by a glittering entourage and stalked by a photographer with a big black camera.

“I don’t see him.” Natalie craned her neck toward the door. “Maybe he changed his mind. Does he even have something to wear?” When told to dress up, most guys—even grown men—defaulted to pleated chinos and a clip-on tie.

“Don’t worry until I say it’s time to worry.”

Natalie tried to follow Cleo’s advice. But now that she was here, everything seemed so stiff and formal and awkward. She pictured Peach in his workman’s garb, and then in his house band outfit of ripped jeans and tight T-shirt. That was his comfort zone. Not this. Maybe he wouldn’t show at all, she thought. Maybe—

“Oh boy.” Cleo looked over Natalie’s shoulder at the ballroom entrance.

Natalie turned to see. In walked a vision of elegance that might have just stepped off the pages of a Jane Austen novel. She didn’t even bother trying not to stare. Peach Gallagher had arrived. And all her expectations exploded.

Not only did he appear to understand the meaning of black tie, he walked into the reception room as if he had invented the look—a perfectly fitted tuxedo jacket and matching trousers, a shirt with studs and cuff links, an expertly tied bow tie, and black laced oxfords. His long hair managed to make the attire seem more formal.

He was every crush she’d ever had from junior high onward. Every album cover she’d stared at, listening to torch songs until she cried. Every mooned-over heartthrob she could never have. Which made her a horrible person, burning with envy over his wife, the aptly named Regina.