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"You the bartender? Why are you here anyway?” I tighten my stare.
"Arthur’s orders. Someone has to keep the peace while you Davenports trade scowls and looks which could tear the skin at ten paces."
"Count me out of that." I raise a shoulder.
His forehead wrinkles. "Thought you and Nathan were in competition for the CEO role."
"He can have it."
"You told him that yet?"
"I will. Also, sparkling water for me," I add.
"A glass of champagne would be nice." My wife nods.
"Coming up." Sinclair walks away.
I spot Summer across the room with her boy. She’s deep in conversation with Ava. I must stiffen because my wife turns to me. "You okay she’s here?"
"Areyouokay she’s here?" I scan her features.
"She’s no threat to me," my wife murmurs.
"No one is a threat to you. You’re it for me."
She looks between my eyes, a troubled look on her features, then she turns away. "That must be her husband. Baron, is it?"
I take in the tall man with blonde hair who has his hand around her waist and I notice the baby carrier next to Ava. I wait for the inevitable churning of my guts, that stabbing sensation in my chest, but there’s nothing. Only the feel of her hand still in mine, of her presence next to me. Unable to stop myself, I wrap my arm about her shoulder; that’s when she goes rigid.
At first, I think it's because of me, but then I look down at her face, to where she's eying a trio of woman gathered in a corner. The older among them has a pinched look to her features. She’s wearing a dress which accentuates her too-thin figure, the kind run-way models favor and which many seem to aspire to but makes me want to offer her a thick-juicy burger. Given the lack of expression on her face and the too-smooth expanse of her forehead, she’s pumped her features with botox. The two younger women, one blonde, the other brunette, sport dissatisfied frowns. Their faces are painted with an overly generous application of make-up, enough to turn them into caricatures of themselves.
When one of the staff comes by with a tray of food, the brunette waves them off with a sniff. The blonde notices my wife; her gaze widens. She leans in and whispers something to the older woman. All three of them turn to look at my wife. Tension thrums off of her, and my insides twist. I pull her close into my side, and to my surprise, she melts in, which tells me she’s feeling threatened by them. And anxious. And anyone who makes my wife feel that way is not welcome here. I take a step in their direction, and she grips my arm.
"Where are you going?"
"To tell them to leave."
"You can’t…you can’t do that."
"I can."
"They are G-Pa’s guests."
"They make you unhappy."
She looks away, then nods. "That’s my father’s wife and their two daughters."
"Your evil stepmother and your half-sisters?"
My poor attempt at levity must work, for she gives me a small smile.
"We don’t have to be here; we can leave," I say softly.
She looks torn, then slowly shakes her head. "We came here at G-Pa’s invitation. He wants us here. You want to be here."
"I want to be where you are."
She turns her gaze on mine and, again, that confused expression flits across her face.
