Chelsea: You guys are killing me. Really, really killing me. It’s seven in the morning. Don’t any of you sleep? My phone’s going off like there’s some sort of national disaster going on!
Gretchen: Oh thank god. There’s Chelsea.
Greer: Gretchen, what can I help you with?
Taylor: Want me to come help you bake some stuff?
Audrey: I can get a babysitter if you need me to come by. Or I’ll make Reese take Chloe for the day. He wants to take her to the park.
Gretchen: Oh my god, Chloe is like, 3 months old, Audrey. What is she going to do at the park?
Audrey: Spit up on her daddy and get some fresh air?
Edie: That’s so adorable. I think my ovaries just exploded.
Chelsea: You have ovaries? I thought you just had cats.
Edie: I do have ovaries. They compel me to adopt more cats. Speaking of, you guys want one? There’s the cutest little rescue we just picked up yesterday and she’s a bit too scared of the café!
Edie: Hello?
Brontë: Um.
Edie: All right, dammit, I can take a hint.
Taylor: I think we should stage a bridesmaid intervention and swoop in and help Gretchen today.
Edie: I can be there by noon if I clear my schedule.
Audrey: Same. I’ll let Reese know he has baby duty.
Greer: My schedule is open, of course. I’ll be there in an hour, Gretchen.
Taylor: Me too!!
Brontë: I’ll talk with Marjorie and let her know I won’t be in until tomorrow, but I can make it over.
Chelsea: Ah, crap. Okay, I’m getting out of bed. Well, in a minute. Sebastian’s awake and happy to see me.
Taylor: TMI!!
Gretchen: You guys can’t see it but I’m totally blubbering over here. I love all of you.
***
Daphne hesitated at the door of the enormous Buchanan Manor. She had a poinsettia plant in hand as a housewarming gift, but that felt a little stupid considering her sister had been living here for over a year now. It wasn’t the size of the place that was making her stomach tie up in knots—hell, last year, she’d performed for a prince’s private birthday party. She’d seen buildings that would put this one to shame.
It was that she wasn’t invited, and she was pretty sure that she wasn’t going to be welcomed.
She glanced back at the taxi, where Wesley was sitting in the back, watching her. He gave her a thumbs-up, and the look on his face was confident. Very much the ‘you’ve got this, Daph’ sort of look that he always gave her. And for some reason, that made her feel better. Maybe she did have this. Maybe Gretchen wouldn’t slam the door in her face.
God, she wished Wesley was coming in with her. She wanted to wave him forward, but she knew he felt she should do this on her own. That was key to growing and adapting, he’d told her in the car on the way over. She needed to learn to be okay on her own. Today was a baby step that would be part of a larger process, and it was good for her to go visit her family by herself. She didn’t need him hovering, he’d proclaimed, and given her a proud look. Like she was someone to be proud of.
Funny, she still felt like Daphne the Mess. She wondered if that feeling ever went away.
Probably not.
She smoothed a hand over her reddish-blonde ponytail and straightened her sunglasses. Between the natural hair color and the fact that she’d gained twenty—okay, thirty-five—pounds since entering rehab? She didn’t get recognized on the street a lot. People were too busy looking for thin and glamorous Daphne Petty, global superstar with aquamarine hair, a wild dress, and two pounds of makeup. No one looked twice at a frumpy redhead with no makeup. Well, most days. Sometimes the paps were tipped off and then she’d have to endure another week of horrifying pictures of her in the tabloids, usually photoshopped to make her look like an utter train wreck, and then more conference calls and discussions with the label about her progress.
If it wasn’t Wesley up her ass, it was the label, thanks to Cade Archer’s intervention. Ever since he’d bought enough shares to be on the board, it was no longer “Here, have another hit of the good stuff before going on stage, Daphne.” It was “Did you do your yoga today, Daphne?” or “Here’s a great recipe for quinoa with apples, Daphne.”
Which . . . wasn’t terrible. It was just different. In fact, most of the time she liked it. She liked knowing that people were pulling for her instead of waiting for her to screw up. That was a rather nice change.
The taxi’s horn honked, and she turned around and flipped it the bird. She knew Wesley was waiting for her to knock on the door instead of just standing there like an indecisive lump, but damn, give a girl a minute. It wasn’t every day that she showed up on her sister’s doorstep looking to make amends.
Daphne sucked in a breath, steeling herself. She knocked.
And waited.
There was nothing for a long, long minute. Then, what sounded like a flurry of laughing female voices floated toward the door. A moment later, the door opened and a smiling Gretchen stood there, looking the same as she always did: slightly disheveled, a pair of nerd glasses perched on her nose, and dressed in yoga pants. Daphne felt a pang of envy. No matter what went on, Gretchen always seemed to be laughing.
That laughter died at the sight of Daphne on the doorstep.
“Um, surprise.” Daphne held out the plant. She couldn’t even muster her “on” personality, the one she used to get through meet and greets. This was her sister; there was no pretending around her.
Gretchen’s wide-eyed gaze swept up and down Daphne. “Holy shit. Oh. Holy shit.”
Daphne shivered a little on the doorstep. It was snowy and she hadn’t exactly dressed to be standing on the porch for an hour. “Is this a bad time?”