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“You hungry, sis?” I pull back and look at her, my hand behind her back still roaming, dangerously close to her ass.
I should mean dinner, but I’m not asking about food.
“Starving! Yeah, let’s eat.” She sounds better as she beams like the sun, but when I look into those sunny brown eyes, the only thing I see is a nervous,what the fuck?
I let go of her and turn around.
Bruce gives us an approving nod. Ma has her skinny hand tucked in his, smiling like I’ve just handed her the damn moon.
Great.
Another good reason to get dry heaves—as if the devastating loss only Delia knows we’ve just experienced wasn’t enough.
“Aw, Christopher,” she purrs, smiling like she hasn’t for years before clapping her hands together. “Okay! Let’s go get to know each other better over good food and wine. Just wait until you taste Irving’s carrot risotto! Bruce’s chef is just splendid and—oh, I can’t ruin it, you’ll see!”
Christ.
She’s practically levitating, humming to herself.
I, for one, donotfeel fucking good.
It feels like crossing an entire museum’s wing before we reach the dining room.
Like everything else here, it’s huge, housing old-school furniture that looks more like an English manor from the last century than anything modern.
A massive fireplace behind the table burns brightly, its gas flames imposing enough for any mafia kingpin.
I wonder if Bruce is flexing what he lacks in muscle with his sense of style.
I take the seat right next to Delia, while they sit across from us, making goo-goo eyes at each other.
My stomach flips over.
If it wasn’t for the shock and awe sitting next to me, I think I would’ve already yacked a couple times.
Less than a minute later, a sharp-dressed man strides into the room. He plates up our food and pours wine.
I’m grateful for having food to focus on, even if what should be a delicious spread is bound to tastes rancid after this shot to the face.
Everybody tucks into their salad and drinks—except for poor Delia, who picks at her grub like a bird with a bellyache.
“You’re a busy lady, aren’t you, Delia? Journalism, is it?” I ask, recalling the one thing I’ve heard about her. “You really should eat. Keep up your strength.”
She gives me that wide-eyed look of pain and disbelief again.
“Journalism. Right,” she answers softly, her voice so strained. “I’m on a summer diet. Too many bad influences around campus.”
“I figured. You don’t look like the type who’d get carried away doing things you shouldn’t,” I growl, stabbing my fork through a tomato.
She smiles down at her plate.
She won’t even look at me.
For some unholy reason, that pisses me off, even knowing it’s not her fault.
The only one I have to blame for this insane cosmic joke is God.
Before I think too hard, I reach under the table, catching her thigh with my fingers. I squeeze her firmly.
