“I don’t believe you!”
“We won’t tell your father, Wynter,” Rachel says dryly. “He doesn’t like Priest, but I doubt he’d prefer a hockey player. I, on the other hand, am relieved you’re moving on.”
“Can we please change the topic?” Wynter begs.
“Of course.”
“Dog. Here!” Amara’s bark has everyone at the table jumping. A smug gleam pops into the woman’s eyes like she knew that’d happen and pre-planned it. “Dog cute enough?”
My request clearly still disgusts her.
But my heartmelts.
“Ohhhhh, my god. So adorable!” I hold out my hands. “Yes! So cute!!”
Amara deposits the dog on my lap, folds her arms, and studies me. “Had shots. No pee in house. Need puppy milk. Mama dead.”
Sniffling, I croon, “We’re both orphans, huh, baby?”
Amara’s expression softens, but Rachel clears her throat. “You’re sure about this, Victoria? Puppies are a lot of responsibility.”
“I’m sure. I have guards and they can do the walking and stuff, no worries.”
Rachel snorts. “Not sure that’s what I meant.”
I press my nose to the fluff ball’s fur and when she licks it, I squeal.
“Hurt ears,” Amara admonishes, tugging on her own. “Lower voice.”
Because I don’t want her to take the dog away from me, I whisper, “We’re going to be the bestest friends.”
“Need more dog?”
My mouth works. “Um, no. One’s enough.”
“Want more, come back. Have plenty. Look after or I find you and hurt you.”
As I gape at her, she stomps off. Wynter gleefully assures me, “She means it.”
“I guessed as much!”
Rachel reaches for her coffee cup. “Your mother…”
“Murdered,” I say quickly, knowing it’s best to rip off the Band-Aid.
“How didn’t I know that?” Wynter gasps.
“I don’t talk about it. Anyway, it’s not something you bring up in everyday conversation, is it?”
Wynter brushes my shoulder with a hand. “I’m so sorry, Victoria.”
“It happened a long time ago.” My smile’s probably brave. At least, I attempted bravery. Not sure it lands when both of them turn sympathetic expressions my way. I jump up. “Okay! I’d better go now. I have places to be.”
“Wait a second, Victoria. I’ll have you escorted to the turnpike.”
“Oops! I was supposed to do that,” Wynter mumbles.
“That’s not necessary,” I protest.
