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“He won’t tell me.”
“Really? That’s so cute.”
“I probably will one day,” I mutter, as I set myself up with a cutting board and knife.
“But not today?”
I grin over at her. “Nope, not today.”
If I’d known it was just cutting bread, I would have let Lily do it. But hell, I’ll probably still cut the bread better with a broken arm than she would. My woman is not a cook. But that’s what she has me for.
After two beers, I switch to water. I need all my brain cells to walk the tightrope between Lily and her mom.
Lily doesn’t have a drinking problem. I’d know about that by now. Although the way she’s throwing back glasses of white wine tonight, it’d be fair to think otherwise. So, why the hell did her mom care if she had a glass of wine with dinner? And why is she eyeballing her every time she gets a refill?
Dinner’s good, though. Mrs. Wilson makes us steak, baked potatoes, sauteed green beans and salad. She apparently forgot that Lily’s not eating meat anymore. Or maybe Lily forgot to tell her? So, Lily eats a baked potato, green beans, and salad for dinner. And wine. She drinks more wine than she eats food. She doesn’t complain, but I’m already planning on making her something when we get home.
Things are going fine until dessert. And then they’re not.
“I probably shouldn't even make dessert anymore. But I just couldn’t help myself when I knew Jameson was coming over.”
“Here she goes,” Lily mutters when her mom leaves the room.
“What’s going on?”
“You’ll see. Enjoy your dessert.” Lily tosses back the rest of her wine.
Before I can ask what the hell she means, she stands up and heads into the kitchen for another refill. That’s probably not her best idea. I’ve lost track of how many glasses she’s had tonight. But it’s a lot.
Then Lily walks back into the dining room, following her mom. Mrs. Wilson is carrying a glass tray with a massively tall cake, covered in chocolate frosting and raspberries. Lily has her wine in one hand and side plates and dessert forks in the other.
“Here it is!” Mrs. Wilson announces as she puts the tray down in the center of the table.
Lily sits back down beside me and nearly throws the plates into the middle of the table. The little silver forks skid across the tablecloth.
“Lily!”
“Sorry,” Lily says. She doesn’t look sorry. She looks miserable.
What the hell is going on here? I have brothers, not sisters. Whatever is going on here, I have zero experience with. I feel like there are more layers of tension here than there are in that mile-high chocolate cake on the table. And they’re all right in front of me, but I can only see half of them. And I can’t figure out what any of them mean.
I know well enough to know that I’m in a minefield and not to make any sudden movements. So, I do my best to stand still.
“That cake looks amazing, Mrs. Wilson.”
Watching Lily out of the corner of my eyes, I can see her roll hers at me. Taking her hand in mine, I squeeze it. When she squeezes mine back, I feel a little better.
Then we both watch as her mom cuts a massive piece of cake and puts it on one plate. Then she cuts a little hunk off the top of the next slice, cuts it again in two, and puts one piece on each of the next two plates.
She hands the big slice to me and then puts the ones that are about the size of a single boxed chocolate at Lily’s place and her own.
She sits down and holds her fork up in the air. “Let’s dig in!”
Who’s digging into what? The only one with cake here is me.
“You made a whole cake, but you’re not going to have any?”
Lily squeezes my hand hard under the table.
