Tom Morrison himself approached, clipboard in hand, wearing the satisfied expression of a man being paid double for a rush job.
“Ms. Sterling,” he said. “Where would you like the champagne station?”
Brandon’s eyes widened. “Champagne station?”
“Right by the pool,” I said. “And make sure everyone gets the good stuff. Dom. Not the house champagne.”
A ripple moved through the crowd. People recognized quality when they heard it.
Within thirty minutes, my deck transformed. Linens. Crystal. Silver service. The casual barbecue became a high-end dinner party with a price tag that made Brandon’s face tighten into panic.
He pulled me aside again, voice strained. “What is this going to cost?”
I smiled, sweet and steady. “Don’t worry, honey. It’s all taken care of.”
What I didn’t say—what I enjoyed not saying—was that “taken care of” didn’t mean “paid by me forever.”
It meant I was about to teach my son what management actually looks like.
And the first lesson was expensive.
The morning after the party had the kind of silence that only happens when reality sobers everyone faster than coffee.