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Then she dares a glance in my direction for the first time since we walked away from her little boyfriend at the valet stand.
I smirk, but I can feel it’s fucking malicious.
Just wait until I get you alone.
She’s already uneasy, then I drop into the booth beside her instead of taking the chair my dad left open next to him.
Gemma hesitates, her gaze drifting uncertainly in my father’s direction.
He wants to believe we can play at being one big, happy family, so he subtly nods and grabs her waist, pulling her around to his side of the table and pulling out the empty chair beside him.
Gemma sits reluctantly, smoothing down her skirt as she does. She’s sitting across from me, and she knows I don’t like her, so she’s tense. I slide her an indolent smirk that makes her even more uncomfortable as I stretch out my arm and rest it on the top of the booth behind her daughter’s back.
Parker’s posture straightens until it’s as rigid as her mother’s, but it’s a gut reaction. As soon as I notice, she tries to relax before anyone else does.
“Should we get an appetizer?” Parker asks with manufactured pep.
My father is as invested in this futile effort as she is, so he picks up his menu and glances at the starters section. “There are enough of us this time. We might as well. You were interested in the charcuterie board last time, weren’t you?”
Parker smiles, looking down at the menu. “Yes. My favorite part is the ‘pickled stuff.’ You don’t expect to see ‘pickled stuff’ in the description on such a fancy menu.”
“What about the charred octopus?” he asks.
Parker’s face screws up. “Ew, no. That’s so mean.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Mean?”
“You want to kill an octopus?” she demands, as if discussing a puppy massacre.
“Well, I wasn’t planning on getting out my spear and doing it myself.”
Gemma cracks a faint smile, but Parker remains disgusted. “It’s barbaric. I’m not eating it, and—full disclosure—I’ll be annoyed at you if you do.”
My dad nods, eyebrows lifted. “All right, then. Pickled stuff it is.”
“When Parker was a little girl, she befriended an octopus at the Baymont Aquarium,” Gemma explains.
“His name was Frank, and he was adorable,” Parker says primly.
“They played hide-and-seek,” Gemma continues.
“He was an excellent hider.”
“Frank was a very smart octopus who enjoyed sneaking out of his tank sometimes and scaring the bejeezus out of his caretakers.”
Parker sighs. “Too adventurous for his own good, that Frank.”
“The last time he got out, Frank made it to the kitchen of the little aquarium bistro.”
“Uh-oh,” Dad murmurs.
Gemma nods solemnly. “When the cook found him, he just thought somehow an octopus meant for the dinner menu had slipped through without being thoroughly… prepared.”
“Murdered,” Parker amends dramatically. “How sadistic is it that the bistro serves seafood in a place where marine lifeliterally lives, anyway?”
“We do not eat octopus,” Gemma concludes. “Ever.”
Parker huffs, crossing her arms and sinking back against the booth in annoyance. Her annoyance quickly turns to alarm when she remembers where I put my arm.
