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Her eyes widen. “You don’t see why not? I suppose that makes sense. You apparently ‘didn’t see’ Cora today, either. Like I believe that.”
“I didn’t see Cora,” I reiterate. “Even if I had, I wouldn’t have made a huge scene the way you did.”
“I didn’t make a scene.”
I snort. “You screamed at the hostess and stormed out of the restaurant.”
After I left Cora in the bathroom, I snuck out through the back patio door and walked around to the front of the restaurant to meet Francia. She was all smiles, clinging to my arm and grinning at everyone on the street like she was in a fucking pageant.
Then we walked inside.
Mikhail sprang out of his chair the moment he saw me in the waiting area. I caught his trail across the dining room out of the corner of my eye. But based on the way Francia’s face tightened, I know she saw all of it.
We barely made it through the doors before she was stomping back out onto the sidewalk, looking a hell of a lot less pleased than she had when she’d gone in.
That was all fine with me. I’d already gotten exactly what I wanted from our lunch date. More than I ever could have bargained for, actually.
“I didn’t want to sit around while people whisper about you and your ex,” she hisses. “Our first outing together can’t be a double fucking date.”
“It would put to bed a lot of rumors swirling around right now.”
She unfolds her napkin with a quick flick of her wrists. “Putting anything to bed is what I’m worried about.”
The memory of Cora wrapped around my neck, her pussy quivering against my lips, roars to life in me. It’s the fight of my life to keep from grinning like a lunatic.
Francia is still staring at me when I hear the front door open.
“Who is that?” she asks.
I don’t say anything because I already know. There are only two people who barge into my house with any regularity—and Yasha doesn’t usually wear high heels that click across the entryway.
Francia starts to stand just as my sister appears in the doorway. When she sees who I’m sitting with, her smile curdles.
“Great timing, Anya.” I wave her in. “Join us. Sit down.”
“I’d hate to interrupt. Anyway, I was actually just dropping by for—There’s a dress upstairs in the guest room. I wanted to wear it.”
“It’s great that you’re here!” Francia crows. “I wanted to talk more about the wedding planning.”
Anya is still creeping around the edge of the dining room. As if she might be able to slip back into the shadows and escape. “I sent you an email. Did you get my email?”
Francia frowns. “No.”
“Oh. Maybe I forgot to send it.” She chuckles at herself. “I am so scattered. Very busy recently. I should leave and check and then I’ll send it and—”
“Or we can talk about it now.” Francia pulls out the chair between us. “Sit.”
Sensing she’s lost this battle, Anya reluctantly sits down. Under the table, she kicks my ankle. I just smile back at her over my ice water.
“Like I told you the other day, Francia, I’m not really great at the whole wedding planning thing. I don’t have the head for all of the details and the color schemes.”
“You planned your own wedding, didn’t you?” Francia asks. “I saw an article about it in the paper. It looked beautiful.”
“Years ago.” She waves a hand dismissively. “Which feels more like a lifetime ago. And it was kind of out of necessity.”
“Yeah, because you fired the wedding planner you originally hired,” I added. “You told me she couldn’t capture ‘your vision,’ so you’d have to do it yourself.”
I feel another hard, sharp kick under the table. My ankle will be bruised, but having Anya here as a buffer between me and Francia is worth it.
