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Authors: Heather Cocks, Jessica Morgan
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her?
Stop it.
This was ridiculous. They weren’t covering the party for E! or
Hey!
or any of their exclamatory brethren. Max might not even write about any of tonight’s events at all. It was just a test. Nobody at the party would know that her secret—and, she prayed, secretly brilliant—blog was even happening.
“You are going to be amazing,” she told her reflection. “You need Max. And Max needs you. This is going to work.”
It has to work.
six
AS THE CAR TURNED in through the front gate of an immense oceanside mansion, Max found herself wondering if Moxie Stilts had bought her house as a cutesy pun, as it was literally built on them. The Malibu manse was three stories of modern glass and steel, carved into a cliff and kept from tumbling into the waves below by a handful of what looked like Pixy Stix.
“I couldn’t live here,” Max said, peering out the window of Molly’s SUV. “I would be down there all day staring at those things to see if they’re still solid. What if there’s a big storm?”
“Okay, for future reference, I do
not
want my blog to be full of boring commentary about architectural safety and, like, El Niño,” Brooke said as Molly guided the car towardthe party’s valet-for-hire. She was clearly feeling like herself again. “Although, actually, maybe Daddy decided to come for research. They’re already talking about an
Avalanche!
sequel called
Mudslide?!?
”
“That can’t be. They only just finished shooting
Avalanche!
last week,” Molly pointed out.
Brooke fiddled with the clasp of her silver evening clutch. “Well, I saw a script outline on Daddy’s desk, and that’s what it said. I don’t make these things up. I just report them.”
“You seem to do a lot of snooping around that office,” Max noted.
Brooke turned around in her seat and glared at her. “I’m just observant,” she said. “Like you’re going to need to be if you’re going to pull off being me.”
“I think donating one percent of my working brain to the cause should cover it.”
“
Zing
,” Brooke retorted sarcastically.
“Okay, everybody, retreat to your corners,” Molly said, throwing the car into Park. “We’re here.”
The girls climbed out, gave their names to a ponytailed blonde wearing a black shift dress and holding a clipboard, and were waved up the gravel driveway toward a large amber-lit tent that had been erected on the house’s massive side lawn. A convivial din emanated from behind the cloth as waiters bustled in and out, half of them ferrying snacks and full glasses of champagne, the others toting trays piled high with overturned plates and crumpled napkins.
Inside, chandeliers hung from the underside of the tent, throwing a dim, flattering light over the bar, a dance floor, and white-draped round tables topped with tight bunches of hyacinths. It echoed one of the receptions Max had read about in the copy of
InStyle Weddings
that had been in the Fu’d break room for the last six weeks.
Oh, please, can this be a surprise wedding?
That was almost as trendy as a secret baby. Writing about it would be a slam dunk.
“There he is,” Brooke said, gesturing with her chin toward a tall, handsome fortysomething man in a tuxedo sitting at a corner table drinking a low-carb beer and staring suspiciously at a tiny hamburger from which he had taken one bite.
Brick Berlin visibly brightened and leaped to his feet. “Girls! Welcome! Group hug!”
He pulled Brooke and Molly into a tight embrace.
“Hi, Dad,” Molly said, but it came out muffled because her mouth was covered by his giant biceps. “Burger no good?”
“Bad news, precious child—I tasted mayonnaise,” he said. “Even though I specifically asked if they were condimented. People are so careless. My trainer says it takes a thousand crunches to offset a mayonnaise incident, and I already accidentally ate a tub of potato salad this week.”
He peered over Brooke’s blonde curls at Max.
“And who is
Stop it.
This was ridiculous. They weren’t covering the party for E! or
Hey!
or any of their exclamatory brethren. Max might not even write about any of tonight’s events at all. It was just a test. Nobody at the party would know that her secret—and, she prayed, secretly brilliant—blog was even happening.
“You are going to be amazing,” she told her reflection. “You need Max. And Max needs you. This is going to work.”
It has to work.
six
AS THE CAR TURNED in through the front gate of an immense oceanside mansion, Max found herself wondering if Moxie Stilts had bought her house as a cutesy pun, as it was literally built on them. The Malibu manse was three stories of modern glass and steel, carved into a cliff and kept from tumbling into the waves below by a handful of what looked like Pixy Stix.
“I couldn’t live here,” Max said, peering out the window of Molly’s SUV. “I would be down there all day staring at those things to see if they’re still solid. What if there’s a big storm?”
“Okay, for future reference, I do
not
want my blog to be full of boring commentary about architectural safety and, like, El Niño,” Brooke said as Molly guided the car towardthe party’s valet-for-hire. She was clearly feeling like herself again. “Although, actually, maybe Daddy decided to come for research. They’re already talking about an
Avalanche!
sequel called
Mudslide?!?
”
“That can’t be. They only just finished shooting
Avalanche!
last week,” Molly pointed out.
Brooke fiddled with the clasp of her silver evening clutch. “Well, I saw a script outline on Daddy’s desk, and that’s what it said. I don’t make these things up. I just report them.”
“You seem to do a lot of snooping around that office,” Max noted.
Brooke turned around in her seat and glared at her. “I’m just observant,” she said. “Like you’re going to need to be if you’re going to pull off being me.”
“I think donating one percent of my working brain to the cause should cover it.”
“
Zing
,” Brooke retorted sarcastically.
“Okay, everybody, retreat to your corners,” Molly said, throwing the car into Park. “We’re here.”
The girls climbed out, gave their names to a ponytailed blonde wearing a black shift dress and holding a clipboard, and were waved up the gravel driveway toward a large amber-lit tent that had been erected on the house’s massive side lawn. A convivial din emanated from behind the cloth as waiters bustled in and out, half of them ferrying snacks and full glasses of champagne, the others toting trays piled high with overturned plates and crumpled napkins.
Inside, chandeliers hung from the underside of the tent, throwing a dim, flattering light over the bar, a dance floor, and white-draped round tables topped with tight bunches of hyacinths. It echoed one of the receptions Max had read about in the copy of
InStyle Weddings
that had been in the Fu’d break room for the last six weeks.
Oh, please, can this be a surprise wedding?
That was almost as trendy as a secret baby. Writing about it would be a slam dunk.
“There he is,” Brooke said, gesturing with her chin toward a tall, handsome fortysomething man in a tuxedo sitting at a corner table drinking a low-carb beer and staring suspiciously at a tiny hamburger from which he had taken one bite.
Brick Berlin visibly brightened and leaped to his feet. “Girls! Welcome! Group hug!”
He pulled Brooke and Molly into a tight embrace.
“Hi, Dad,” Molly said, but it came out muffled because her mouth was covered by his giant biceps. “Burger no good?”
“Bad news, precious child—I tasted mayonnaise,” he said. “Even though I specifically asked if they were condimented. People are so careless. My trainer says it takes a thousand crunches to offset a mayonnaise incident, and I already accidentally ate a tub of potato salad this week.”
He peered over Brooke’s blonde curls at Max.
“And who is
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