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“How much I love your grandson,” she said.
“Me too. Wish I saw him more.”
Marlow looked down at her lap. “I’m working on it.”
“I know you are, sweetheart.” His gaze turned to me. “I saw Trish earlier. She looked mighty pretty.”
“Please don’t start.”
“I take it you saw her too.” Yeah, and I couldn’t stop thinking about that chocolate on her cheek. Or her messy hair. Or how beautiful she looked. And how much I missed her.
“She’s here?” Marlow perked up, her head moving from side to side as she scoured the room. “I don’t see her.” She craned her neck.
“Why do I get the feeling that you’re on her side?” I asked both of them.
“I’m not. I want to find out what the deal is.” Marlow reached for her empty wine glass. “I thought they kept it flowing at these things.”
I lifted my chin toward the center of the table. Instead of flowers, there was an arrangement of wine bottles. “How’d you miss that?”
She gave me a saccharine smile. “Would you be a dear and fill your sister’s glass? If I lean over, I’ll flash the entire table.”
Patrick was seated across from us. He gave me the what’s-up nod of his head, his eyes drifting toward my sister.
“I spy someone who’d be more than happy for the view,” I teased.
“Get Marlow the wine,” Dad growled. I hadn’t known he was still listening.
Before I moved, Patrick assessed the situation. He stood, selected a bottle of red from the arrangement, and eased around the table to fill her glass.
She glared at me but moved aside so he could pick up her stemware.
“Andrew, there’s a draft blowing on me in my seat. It’s stirring up my allergies. Is there any way we could swap?” he asked innocently.
If I did this, I’d be condoning Patrick’s pursuit of my sister. I wasn’t sure I was there yet. But it would be fun to make Marlow uncomfortable for the evening.
“Will you behave?”
“Hardly,” he scoffed.
“You can have mine,” Dad offered.
“No. No. You keep your chair by the lovely Mrs. Quinn.”
I pushed back and traded seats, much to Marlow’s chagrin. That put me beside Baker and an empty seat. I refilled my own wine glass as the first course arrived.
“Do you want my olives?” Baker asked, making a face at the ones nestled on her salad.
“Um—”
“Thanks for offering.” Holt speared them with his fork before I had a chance to respond.
“I wasn’t asking you.” She twisted in her seat and stared him down.
“He doesn’t like the black ones.” Holt popped one in his mouth.
“Would you like my tomato?” It was my poor attempt at defusing a situation that seemed on the fast track to out of control.
Baker smiled serenely as I felt someone slide into the chair next to mine. “No. Trish likes those.”
