All That Really Matters, Nicole Deese [best detective novels of all time .TXT] 📗

and then glanced at our girls, eyeing my beach bag with anticipation. “I was thinking earlier that since this is your first mentor meeting, I could lead things off to show you the structure we try to follow. But you’d be welcome to jump in whenever you’d like. Oh, maybe you’d want to lead prayer time today? It’s the last thing we do as a group before the girls are dismissed for reflection time to journal.”

Three words pecked against my skull. Lead. Prayer. Time. “You know, I think it would be best, for continuity sake, if you went ahead and closed us out in prayer this time. I’m happy to follow your example.”

“Okay, sure, that works.”

As we met up with the girls again, Clara’s steps were much peppier than my own as I wondered just how to un-gift the presents I’d brought. Luckily, Clara took over that part, as well. She simply made it out to be a math blunder that would all be sorted out by the next meeting. And it would. I’d make sure to come back with twelve.

Clara was good people.

She opened our time asking a series of questions about everyone’s day, to which the residents seemed to know the routine well. Each of the girls took a couple minutes to give an update, bringing up issues like co-worker disputes, classmate problems, homework deadlines. Wren passed on it all.

I wondered how often Wren skipped these personal questions. Whatever the answer, Clara didn’t seem bothered by her lack of response whatsoever.

“Great. Well, once again, I know we’re all so happy to have Molly joining us this summer. She and I will be co-leading, so I wanted to invite you all to get to know her a bit better. If you have any specific questions for her before we move on to reflection time, please feel free to ask.”

Five hands went up at once—all except for Wren’s. She simply studied me from the end of the picnic bench without a word.

From Monica: “How many total followers do you have on your social media pages—like combined? Is it over two million?”

From Felicia: “Do you think you could give us all makeovers sometime?”

From Jasmine: “Yeah! And could we see a picture of your closet? You must have so many nice clothes. Is it true that you get sent free stuff from all kinds of companies?”

From Amy: “We looked you up on Tuesday night and saw that Selena Gomez follows you! Have you met her in real life? Do you get invited to celebrity parties? Have you ever dated anybody famous?”

From Sasha: “Is this really all you do for money? Make videos of yourself and talk about makeup?”

Ouch. Okay, so Sasha wasn’t exactly the warmest of young women.

“Oh, well, wow. That’s a whole lot of questions.” I glanced at Clara, hoping for a rescue plan. Somehow, I doubted Silas would approve of Makeup Matters taking over the small group study handbook we were supposed to be following. But Clara was no help; she looked as curious as they did.

And then I had an idea.

“What if . . . what if we had a slumber party here at some point? Like a whole evening dedicated to makeovers and hairstyles, and I could bring some yummy snacks and we could watch some cute romantic comedies or something? That might be a better time to get into the details of all your questions.”

Hoping I hadn’t broken some kind of protocol by making the suggestion, I glanced at Clara. But she was already bobbing her head in agreement. “We actually try to plan a dedicated girls’ night each month—but I don’t think we have a plan for later in the summer yet. Let me see here.” She opened a spiral-bound planner on the table and flipped through weeks and months, her finger roaming past each date box overflowing with blue and black ink. Apparently, somebody needed to get this girl a second calendar. Finally, her finger stopped and she tapped an open weekend in July while offering me a hope-filled smile. “Any chance this date could work for you? I’d still need to run this all past Silas, but I can’t imagine he’d have an issue with it.”

She couldn’t? Really? Obviously Clara and I knew two very different sides of Silas Whittaker. And for whatever reason, I seemed to evoke his irritated side far more often than any other person I’d encountered here. But perhaps things would go smoother overall if Clara was the one to ask the Duke of Fir Crest Manor for a makeover night and not me.

I picked up my phone, seeing notifications of four hundred forty-six comments on the photo I’d posted to my Instagram before I left the house. It featured a cream clutch handbag with gold hardware, a linen bullet-point journal, and a pale pink coffee mug boasting the hashtag #MakeupMatters propped beside a blush throw blanket. All items were twenty percent off today if they used the promotional link in my bio. Apparently, my followers had wildly approved.

The muscle memory in my trigger finger narrowly escaped clicking into my favorite social media outlet, but instead, I swiped into my calendar and double tapped the date she’d asked about.

Outside of some loose work notes specific to video themes and shoots, my days were wide open. I had exactly zero social engagements scheduled on any given date in July. Just like the majority of my evenings and weekends for much of the summer . . . and beyond.

In general, if Ethan wasn’t flying in from Seattle for a spontaneous date night or flying me to some VIP conference or fashion shoot, I had little else going on outside of working at my home studio: taking pictures of new product lines, making and arranging food I’d eventually drop off to Miles, replying to hundreds of online friends, and video chatting with Val while I tried out the latest hair mask recommendation.

I swallowed, squinting at the blank calendar box on my phone before glancing up to the