Someone—she couldn’t remember what his name was, she’d met so many new people—had put it there. She hadn’t touched it, though, because eggnog.But she couldn’t set it down either. That’d be rude, and the last thing she wanted to do was insult their host—not on Christmas Day, and especially not because it was Daniela Rossi.If someone had told her she’d end up in San Francisco this year, in an enormous posh high-rise, at Daniela Rossi’s annual private Christmas party, with eggnog in her hand, she’d have asked what sort of drugs that person had taken.“How are you doing?” Eve said, slipping her arm around Trudy’s waist. “Do you need anything?”She lifted the cup. “I have more than I need.”Eve smiled impishly. “Usually Daniela serves different flavors of mimosas, but this year she decided to go traditional. The eggnog is actually delicious, and those are words I never thought I’d string together. It’s Daniela’s grandmother’s recipe.”“Generally I’d trust your taste, Eve, but . . .”
