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I open my mouth to answer, but Connor cuts me off.
“My fiancée,” he says.
I think my mouth falls open. I reach up to feel if it has or not, and indeed, it’s gaping.
“Fiancée?” Miss Lulah asks, not seeming shocked, but more as if she wants him to expand on his statement.
“Bertrand left a parting gift for me,” Connor says, holding his cup. It’s weird to see his large hands grasping such a dainty-looking teacup, and I watch them, waiting for him to finish. “I have to get married to get my inheritance.”
Miss Lulah taps one finger on the tabletop as she purses her lips, looking at him. She tilts her head to the side. “And you chose this Wryn?” She gestures toward me, and I lean my head back, mirroring her stance toward Connor.
“It was mutual,” he says, and I roll my eyes.
“I see. So, this is not a love match?”
“Definitely not,” Connor says, clearing his throat, glancing around the room.
“No,” I say, quickly agreeing.
Miss Lulah hums for a moment and then shrugs. “Well, it seems congratulations are in order,” she says, holding her cup in the air for a toast.
“That’s it? You aren’t going to ask anything else?” Connor asks her.
She smiles softly, the corner of her eyes crinkling. “Is there something you want me to ask?”
“No, but I thought you would have more questions,” he says.
She takes a deep breath and then releases it. “It seems like you’ve made up your mind, and the fact that Wryn is here means she’s in agreement, I hope?” She raises her eyebrows at me, and I nod quickly. “Then, that settles it. What a … happy couple.” Miss Lulah raises her cup slightly, nods, and then takes a drink.
I can’t help but think she meant that last part sarcastically.
I like her.
“My little Wryn, would you like to choose a book?” Miss Lulah asks.
I take a look at her bookshelves that span the walls of the cozy room.
“I’m not much of a reader,” I admit, and she doesn’t give me a dirty look, like I thought she might.
“Do you know how to read?” she asks.
I scoff, “Yes, of course I know how to read.”
“Then, you are a reader,” she tells me, standing and holding her hand out.
I put my palm in hers, relishing in the feel of human contact and how it travels through my arm, warming my chest. My heart beats a bit quicker as I follow her, and she stops in front of one shelf.
She peruses the spines of the books, one finger trailing along them until she finds the one she wants and pulls it out, handing it to me.
“This one might interest you,” she tells me and smiles, her wise eyes taking me in as I look down at the paperback she’s placed in my hands.
The Great Gatsby.
“What’s it about?” I ask, vaguely remembering that we might have been assigned this at some point in high school but I wasn’t the scholarly sort. I probably read a CliffsNotes version and then promptly forgot about it.
“Lies mostly,” she says with a grin, and I feel my lips match hers.
“I thought you might say love,” I tell her, and she chuckles.
