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“Because I said something dumb, but Preston Bean was asking for it.”
“Oh. What did Preston Bean do?”
“Called Dad a murderer. His dad’s a cop.”
Oh shit. I wouldn’t want to be Preston Bean’s dad right now. Or Principal Tucker. “Chin up, I’m sure your dad will sort it out.” I see plenty of threats heading their way. Stupid men.
Daniel mumbles and moans as he climbs the stairs, and Rose appears, Maggie in her arms, crossing the hallway to the kitchen. “Hey,” she says, head tilted. “Okay?”
I nod, turning with her and going to the kitchen. “Daniel just told me about the school.”
“Nightmare,” she says, shaking her head. “Back to homeschooling, unless I want my husband to fix it.”
I smile. “What are you doing today?” I ask, joining Anya at the island.
“Maggie has a checkup with Doc, and I will be convincing the contractors at the spa that I’m scarier than my husband.”
Esther laughs. “That shouldn’t be hard,” she says, putting a cup of tea in my hand. I smile my thanks. “Are you feeling better?”
I don’t need to ask how she knows. The answer is sitting next to me chomping her way through some toast.
“Oh, you’re ill?” Rose asks, rearranging the muslin cloth on her shoulder and holding Maggie there, starting to pat her back.
“A little.” I nibble at the corner of the croissant, hoping the questioning stops there.
“You should see Doc.”
“Who should?”
I turn and find Doc behind us, dressed in his usual sharp tweed suit. “I’m fine,” I assure him. Except for the soreness between my legs. And the feeling of dread in my tummy. I don’t expect him to have a cure for either.
He doesn’t listen, coming at me with his palm and laying it over my forehead. “You’re hot.”
Yes, because I still haven’t cooled down after last night.
Beau saves me, breezing in without a towering assassin following her for once. She’s a little breathless, her skin damp, and her hand rests on her small bump. “I’m starving.” She leans past me and plucks a pastry from the pile. God, what would she say if she knew it was me in Brad’s bathroom this morning? “You okay?” she asks, looking at me curiously as she takes a huge bite.
I feel myself getting hotter again. “I’m fine.”
Anya pushes the croissant to my mouth. “You should eat,” she says, and I smile, pacifying my friend by taking another small bite. My stomach protests, but I swallow, fighting to keep it down, my anxiety threatening to force it up.
Yesterday at the club was a flashback, nothing more, a silly something that was triggered by Anya crunching some ice. It caught me off guard. I couldn’t stop the blood draining from my face, and Mason didn’t miss it. It was easy to say yes when he asked if I felt unwell. Easier than telling him the truth. I needed air, to walk off the anxiety. So I left the club. And ended up in The American’s car.
“Morning, darlings!” Zinnea breezes in, her dress wafting behind her. “I’m out for the day. And maybe the night too.” She puts her tongue in her cheek. “If I’m lucky.”
“When will we get to meet Quinton officially?” Beau asks, lifting onto a stool next to me. I pour her some of the green juice James insists she drinks, and she air-kisses me, her mouth full again as she accepts.
“Bring him back here?” Zinnea asks, helping herself to a coffee. “To the Munsters house? Really, darling? He’ll run a mile.”
“You’re ashamed of us?” Rose gasps, bobbing on the spot, now rubbing Maggie’s back.
“I’m not ashamed. I’m merely ensuring he’s in love with me and could never possibly leave me before I introduce him to my dysfunctional family.”
I laugh into my tea as I take a sip. Dysfunctional, yes. It’s also amazing, and as I gaze around the kitchen now, I feel a horrible, deep ache in my stomach. I never want to leave, and not only because I feel safe here. I don’t want to leave because I’ve grown attached to everyone. Or most of them, anyway. What happened last night could wreck this. Or my truths could. I hate lying to them, especially the girls. What would they do if I told them? Kick me out? Send me back? The men, maybe, but the girls?
“You going to eat that?”
“Pardon?” I look at Beau, seeing her pointing to the croissant I’ve hardly touched. “Oh, no.” I push the plate her way. “You have it.” I can’t eat. I’m too sidetracked.
