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“Scarlett, there you are! Oh, don’t you look lovely,” Miranda greets me, her lips curved into a polite smile.
Panic swarms like a cluster of angry bees in my stomach, and I plop into my chair heavily, offering her a smile in return. God, did she see the photos of me and Tate? Most likely. “Thank you, Mrs. Baldwin.”
My father starts talking, Kincaid interjecting here and there, which allows me to retreat for a moment and gather my bearings. I run a hand through my hair, keeping my head bent so I don’t blatantly stare at Ian, and I swear I feel his gaze on me.
Watching me.
Assessing.
“Still recovering from the party, Scarlett?” Miranda asks me out of the blue after the second-course plates have been taken away.
I jerk my gaze to hers, the knowing smile on her face filling me with dread. Maybe she never thought I was a good prospect for her son, and this is her chance to sink her claws into me. “There was nothing to recover from, Mrs. Baldwin.”
“Not from what I saw.”
“Miranda,” my mother chastises, but Ian’s mom completely ignores her.
“I saw the photos.” She tilts her head in my direction. “Who didn’t see those photos, hmm? They were everywhere. I had no idea you were seeing that Ramsey boy.”
“I’m not,” I start to protest, but my father talks right over me.
“I’m the one who put them together, Miranda. Thought they might make a fantastic couple,” he says, chuckling. Taking all the credit as usual. “I know ol’ Ian here has been dancing around my daughter for, what... the last couple years at least? But something needed to happen to force his hand. It was time for him to shit or get off the pot, don’t you think?”
The entire table goes quiet while I try to process what my father just said.
Am I the shit? Or am I the toilet?
“Fitzy,” Mom murmurs. “That probably wasn’t an... appropriate thing to say in regard to your daughter.”
“Oh, come on, we’re all thinking it. I’m just the only one who’s brave enough to say it.” Dad turns his attention to Ian, who suddenly appears a little pale. “What are your intentions for my daughter?”
“I... don’t have any intentions for her,” Ian admits, his gaze falling to his lap.
I stare at him wordlessly, shocked he would just give up so easily. My gaze flits to Kincaid, who appears confused, before shifting to Miranda, who’s smiling.
As if she’s enjoying this conversation.
“You’re a coward.” My voice is loud. Heated. I’m speaking right at Ian, and when he barely lifts his head to look my way, he immediately glances at his mother. As if he needs her approval to... what? Talk to me?
Without thought I jump to my feet and exit the dining room, practically running back to my bedroom. I slam the door behind me and lock it, just before I fling myself onto the bed, clutching one of my pillows so I can cry into it.
Ian’s mom is mean—and he does nothing to stop her.
My dad calls Ian out—and Ian makes it seem like he’s not interested in me.
At all.
Strangely enough, Dad also takes credit for supposedly putting me and Tate together—a bold-faced lie I don’t understand.
Men. That’s at the root of almost every problem I’m currently dealing with. They’re all ridiculous. It’s like they’re purposely trying to drive me crazy.
A sob escapes me, and I press the pillow harder against my face, letting the tears and frustration flow out of me. My entire body shaking with my sobs, my throat raw from the crying. When there’s a light knock on the door, I sit up straight, wiping at my face, staring at the closed door almost with longing.
Is it Ian standing behind that door? Did he come to check on me? Because if he did, that would make up for everything. Even that look he sent his mother. I can’t be mad at him for coming to check on me.
It’s a sign that he cares.
Slipping off the bed, I pad my way across the thick rug, stopping just in front of the door and leaning my head against it, wishing I had x-ray vision. There’s another knock, this one louder, and I startle, shifting away from the door.
