I sat before a mirrored vanity, tucking a strand of hair into my French twist and giving some thought as to how comfortable Quinton had appeared to be with Mark Vincent.
Someone sank down beside me. “Portia.”
I swiveled around. “Allison? I thought you were in Palm Springs.”
“Yes. But then I felt I should be here to support Chance.” She looked tired, and older than I’d ever seen her. “Oh my God, the food is awful!”
I breathed a sigh of relief that I wouldn’t have to lie to my good friend about it.
“I don’t understand. Chance is an amazing cook, and what he prepares for us at home is literally to die for. How do I tell him how horrible this menu was?”
“Quinton said he’d want to know.”
“Yes, but my husband isn’t your son.” She grimaced and opened her purse. “I need a cigarette.”
I pla
