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“How about dessert?” Milán asked when the kitchen was clean. “We’ve got Jeannie’s famous peach cobbler, Tiffany made key-lime pie, and I made flan.”
They ate dessert in the Cupid Room, Adrian’s nickname for the family room. It had white carpet and walls, and neutral chenille couches, but that was where the lack of color ended. Every surface in the room was dedicated to romance: books, stuffed animals, candles, paintings, photo albums. Adrian joked to Ivan that it looked like a love bomb went off in there.
Tiffany found herself sandwiched between Norma Jean and Ivan. Instead of her own pie, she opted for small pieces of cobbler and flan. She was taking a bite of cobbler when Ivan leaned in and whispered into her ear, “Your key-lime pie was delicious.”
“Thank you,” Tiffany replied, almost choking on her dessert.
“Do you bake much?”
She shook her head. “Not really. I like sweets way, way too much to make them often.”
“So why did you disappear so long after dinner that Milán had to come in after you?”
The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as his warm breath tickled her ear.
“No reason.”
“I have a feeling you’re leaving some things out.”
“Oh, really?” she murmured. “And how would you know?”
“I’m good at figuring out when people are telling the truth, and when they’re being…purposefully deceptive.”
“Something you picked up in the army?”
“Yes.”
That answer relayed Ivan’s confidence and abilities, and hinted at something else she could not put her finger on. Her palms grew sweaty.
“I’m not being deceptive,” she whispered, and then got up and headed for the kitchen.
Ivan joined her a minute later. His eyes searched her face.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Your eyes say differently.”
“Tiffany, do we have any—”
Milán scooted to a halt when she saw that her friend wasn’t alone. “Iced tea left?”
“I put it in the fridge,” Tiffany replied.
“Um, thanks.”
Walking to the refrigerator, Milán got what she needed. She stared at Tiffany with a questioning look on her face. Tiffany smiled, and her friend relaxed.
“I’ll take this in to Adrian,” she explained before hurrying out of the room.
Tiffany wasn’t surprised in the least to find that Ivan hadn’t moved an inch during that exchange. He was still ramrod-straight, and staring at her.
“You must be proficient at interrogating people,” she joked. “Okay. I give. I came in to get away from the conversation at dinner. It was…uncomfortable for me.”
“Why?”
“Because Norma Jean misses nothing, and I didn’t want her picking up on what’s between us.”
