“Are we ready to fix the vibe?” I was pushing, but I was worried about her. Yoni looked frazzled. She didn’t want to admit it, but she was pooped.
“I need a focal point.” Her gaze wandered the dressing room. When she looked at that weirdly mangled chair, she glanced at me guiltily, then quickly away at her makeup table.
I looked, too.
Sprinkled all over on top of all the tubes and jars of glop for her hair and face, the hair dryers and the shakers full of sparkle, was a dark layer of . . . rose petals?
And a white square. She picked it up.
“Oh, good grief,” I said. “Can’t he keep that kid on a chain?”
She read the card aloud. “Yoni, you bring us all love. Thank you. Sophie.” She looked up. “The kid’s really very sweet.”
“She’s really certifiable. Did she wreck your bouquet?”
Yoni glanced toward the catering table. “Nope.” She stood up and walked toward it. She turned the vase this way and that. “But she gave me an idea.”
“Oh, good.” If I ever did find a way into Yoni’s life, apparently I was going to have to make room for the stalker kid. As well as all Yoni’s lame-ass relatives.
Yoni seemed to be counting the roses. Her eyes were sparkling. “Come here!”
“I don’t trust that look in your eye.” But I went.
She wrapped herself around me. “We’re going to make roses,” she said as her mouth covered mine. “Lots”—kiss—“and lots”—kiss—“of roses.”