“Do you remember the last time you had a lazy Saturday?” I ask.

“Nope.” Blaire raises her finger in the air. “Wait. I had the flu two years ago and had to take a Saturday off because of it.”

“I don’t think that counts as a lazy day.” This conversation makes me highly aware of just how hard Blaire has to work to get where she is. It explains why she was so hostile the first time I met her.

Blaire turns down a country road and the distance between houses increases. The farther we get from the freeway, the antsier Blaire becomes. She stops asking questions and her answers grow shorter, more clipped. She starts to nibble on her bottom lip, eyes darting to me and away every so often.

“Having second thoughts?” I’m kind of joking, kind of not. We don’t know each other all that well and while I find myself strangely attracted to her, I’m not sure if it’s completely one-sided or not. I believe the invite was more her feeling bad for me, but there’s also been more than one interaction that’s included thinly veiled innuendo and what seems like flirting.

“No. Not really. I mean—” She cringes. “I should probably warn you; my family is a bit…unconventional.”

“Unconventional how?” Maybe they’re circus-performing restaurateurs.

Blaire slows the SUV and makes a careful right. She stops at the gated entrance. For the first time I notice the eight-foot wrought-iron fence that stretches out on both sides into the distance. It’s surrounded by forest. Maybe they’re part of a commune. Or a cult. I sincerely hope I make it out of this alive.

Blaire punches in a code and the gate opens slowly. She clutches the steering wheel until her knuckles turn white as we make our way down the narrow tree-lined driveway.

“Holy crap,” I mutter when the house comes into view. Because it’s not a house. It’s a goddamn palace. A seriously eccentric, gaudy as hell, gothic and creepy palace. Okay, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but based on the vehicle Blaire drives, the knowledge that she had a freaking cupcake truck, and the cheap rent she must pay for Buttercream and Booze, I’m a little shocked. This doesn’t really add up. “Your family lives here?” Maybe they’re the help and we’ll be eating in the servant quarters. Or we’ll have to actually serve dinner before we get to eat it.

“Yup.” Blaire nods stiffly.

No fewer than three Bentleys are parked in the driveway. There’s also a black Ferrari and some obscure European sports car I can’t identify. That’s almost three million dollars in cars parked out front.

“Am I underdressed?” I feel like a tux would’ve been more appropriate.

She waves a nervous hand around in the air and smiles almost manically. “Oh no. You’re perfect. It’s really anything goes.”

She parks her crappy SUV, leaving lots of space between it and one of the six-figure cars, and practically throws herself out of the vehicle. She pops the hatch and I help her carry the boxes of cupcakes up the massive staircase—I’m almost out of breath by the time we get to the top.

She shifts her hold on the boxes, which makes me nervous since she seems shaky and more high-strung than usual all of a sudden. I don’t want any cupcake casualties. Although if they’re ruined they can’t be served and then I could bring them home and eat them all.

She punches in a code and the doors open on their own. Andddd…it only gets weirder. Two statues take up the space on either side of the massive entrance. They’re naked butlers, and their butler trays are not held up by their hands. More naked statues function as the banisters on the winding staircase with a tacky gold inlay. It’s like a Greek mythology museum, a medieval knight, and bad porn slammed into each other, and the result is this strange mash-up. Blaire places the boxes of cupcakes on one of the naked butlers’ trays. She tips her head toward the ceiling and murmurs something I don’t catch, then takes a deep breath. She smiles stiffly and gives my arm a squeeze. I’m not sure if it’s meant to be reassuring for her or me. Or both.

“Hello! I’m here! And I brought a friend with me!” Blaire shouts, her voice echoing off the ceiling of the cavernous open foyer. A butler—an actual fucking butler, dressed in one of those suits with the long tails—appears out of thin air. “Miss Blaire, it’s wonderful to have you home today.”

“Buster, it’s so lovely to see you.”

Buster the butler. Classic. I wonder if it’s his real name or if they changed it for the alliteration.

He lifts the lid and peeks inside one of the boxes resting on the naked butler statue tray. “Oh! All of my favorites, Miss Blaire. You’ve outdone yourself.”

“One of those boxes is for you and the staff. You might want to hide it so the cupcakes don’t all disappear before dinner.” She takes the smaller box I’m still holding. “And these are for you to take home.”

“You’re too good to me.” His smile is fond and warm.

She winks. “Not nearly good enough, considering what you put up with on a regular basis.”

He laughs. “It’s like living on the set of one of Margaret’s soap operas.” He nods to me. “Welcome to the Calloway house, Mr.…”

“Oh, this is my friend, Ronan. All his birds were frozen so I brought him along for dinner.” She pats my arm.

The weird phrasing doesn’t seem to faze Buster. “Well, keep an eye on him in this house.” He winks and strides off.

I’m about to ask her what that means, and why the hell she drives an old SUV when it appears her family has enough money to buy a medium-sized country, but she takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders. “I should mention that my parents are divorced but still friendly with each other.”

“So they’ll both be here?” I’m starting to wonder what I’ve gotten myself into.

“Yes, and they’re both remarried—”

“Care Blaire! You finally made it! Cocktail hour started at noon!” A woman crosses the expansive, marble foyer. Based on her features, she’s most definitely Blaire’s mother. Although Blaire is softer around the edges with Marilyn Monroe curves, and her mother looks more like an aging Twiggy. She’s also wearing a short, tight and sparkly dress more appropriate for a nightclub. “Oh! I didn’t know you were bringing a date! Lawrence, Blaire brought a date!” she calls over her shoulder.

“I’m sorry that you’re trapped here with me now. I promise the booze and food will make it worth it,” Blaire mutters before her mother pulls her into one of those loose, fake hugs and air kisses both of her cheeks.

Her mother grabs her by the shoulders. “You look tired. I think you’re probably working too much. Have you gained weight? I have a great juice detox that will shed some of that baby fat like—” She snaps her fingers beside Blaire’s ear, making her jump.

“Mom, I’m almost thirty. The baby fat is here to stay.”

“It’s all the carbs, honey.”

“I like carbs more than I like food deprivation. Anyway, Mom, this is Ronan.” She motions to me. “Ronan, this is my mother—”

“—Glinda. Like the good witch from The Wizard of Oz.” Her hand shoots out. “Enchanted, I’m sure. And I’m sorry for my terrible manners, but we haven’t seen our Care Blaire since the summer. So much catching up to do! How long have you two been dating?”