Two caterers in white coats were arranging silver trays on the marble island while Brooke stood by the refrigerator with a clipboard.

“We need forty silver butter knives polished by four,” Brooke told the head chef.

“Cole likes the ninety-dollar set from the East Coast supplier.”

She didn’t look up when my shoes squeaked across the dark oak floor.

She raked her fingers through her blond hair and marked a line on her sheet with a red pen.

“Brooke,” I said.

“This is the third time this week you’ve booked vendors in my house without telling me.”

Brooke turned with an easy, bright smile that never reached her gray eyes.