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“We’re gonna valet. We’ll meet you after check-in?”
    “Perfect,” I say, though a not-so-little part of me hopes that we don’t end up in this hotel—only because it would mean Laurel has failed her first challenge.
    I take in Garrett’s easy posture as the boys move off. “Garrett’s so sweet to come along with me,” I say loudly. Charlotte rolls her eyes and looks the other way.
    After a few more moments, during which an emphatic Taylor Swift gives way to Beyoncé on the local radio, Laurel scampers back to the car with a gleeful expression on her face. She slides into the car, eyes gleaming. “I got us a double room for half off. With a balcony, thank you very much.”
    Madeline’s jaw drops, and she offers Laurel her palm to slap. “Nice.”
    Laurel high-fives her. “It was a piece of cake.”
    “Awesome, Laurel,” Charlotte says, admiration ringing in her tone.
    Inside, I’m completely annoyed, but on the outside I just shrug. “That was an easy one,” I say loudly, hoping to bring the whole yay-Laurel party to a halt.
    “So I guess that means we’re one-nothing?” Laurel asks.
    Charlotte places a hand on my knee. “Not so fast, Laur. It’s your turn now, Sutton. Turn that double room into the best suite in the whole damn place, and you get the point instead.”
    Her hazel eyes glint at me, catlike, and the corners of her mouth turn up mischievously. I inhale sharply. The best room? That challenge is way harder than Laurel’s. It’s like they’re setting me up to lose.
    Still. I’m Sutton, the leader of the Lying Game. “No problem,” I say, squaring my shoulders and jumping out of the car.
    I stand in the porte cochere for a moment, my brain buzzing. My eyes take in the glittering, curved drive, the lush, climbing plants, and the bellhops’ brass luggage carts.
    Bingo.
    I pop the trunk and reach for my oversized ivory Beirn watersnake tote. I scrabble through it for a moment or two until I fish out what I need: a massive pair of blush-tinted sunglasses, a silk Hermès scarf, a tube of YSL lipstick in a traffic-stopping Rouge Flamme, and finally, a pair of silver snakeskin stilettos so tall and slim they look like weapons.
    Charlotte is staring at me through the window. “You keep those in your bag?” she asks incredulously.
    I raise an eyebrow at her. “You don’t?”
    She snaps her mouth closed again. Madeline suppresses a nervous giggle. Laurel chews away at a thumbnail.
    I quickly wrap the scarf around my head Grace Kelly style and swap my Chanel flats for the heels. Finally, I apply a fierce layer of lipstick over my perfect pout, checking out the complete look as best as I can in the narrow frame of the rearview mirror.
    “Watch and learn, bitches,” I snap, then march toward the hotel. My heels clack on the marble tile, making a sound like the click of paparazzi cameras. The effect works immediately: puzzled expressions appear on people’s faces. I can feel guests gazing at me once, then doing a double take. “Famous,” I hear a voice say. “Wasn’t she in that movie with . . . ?” comes another.
    It’s amazing how far a little confidence can take you.
    I approach the front desk, forcing a slightly pinched, woe-is-me expression to my face as I smile weakly toward the beaming receptionist.
    “Can I help you?” The receptionist’s voice rises with each syllable. Her forehead furrows in a way that says she doesn’t recognize me but knows she should.
    I shake my head bemusedly and sigh. “I certainly hope so.” I lean in and place a dainty hand on the smooth, polished counter, tilting my head toward the entrance and car park beyond. “I’m afraid my assistant made a mistake.” I do my best to sound disgusted. Given the circumstances, it isn’t that hard. “I need to be checked in as Marilyn Monroe, not under her name.” I throw another frustrated look at Laurel, who has followed me in with the other two girls. “And certainly not under my own.” I give