Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 108730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Carter guides me to sit beside him, placing the napkin in my lap again. This time, at least I don’t jump.
What are all those forks for? I know one’s for salad and one’s for the entrée, but there’s one at the top of the plate too, and I have no idea on that.
“Where’s Jacob?” Grace asks Claire as the first course is served. Cameron looks at Grace questioningly, and Grace explains, “That’s her son. He’s annoying, but he’s funner than being the only kid here.”
“Grace!” Cameron says sharply. “We don’t call people annoying.”
Grace’s brow wrinkles. “You call Uncle CJ annoying all the time.” She looks to Carter, who’s staring at his brother with one brow raised, and repeats, “He does. ‘Specially when you whine about work stuffs.”
“Is that so?” Carter asks.
Claire clears her throat. “Jacob is home with his father, my husband, Mads. It didn’t seem like he’d be needed for a simple dinner.” She looks around the table, and somehow, even her gaze is condescending.
“Your husband’s name is Mads?” Kayla inquires. “I know a guy named Mads too. Never heard of another one. He wouldn’t happen to work at South Peach bar, does he?”
I can’t tell whether Kayla is serious or not. Claire can’t either, I guess, because she scowls as she answers. “My husband is not a bartender. He’s a banker. And his name is Madison, but he prefers Mads.”
Kayla shrugs. “Understandable. The name thing, not the bartender thing. There’s nothing wrong with being a bartender. Mads is my friend. He’s cool and got his name because he’s a little . . .” She twirls a finger by her ear. “We make sure we don’t get him mad.”
I doubt Claire’s husband is cool. He’s probably a stuffy numbers type that wears his socks in bed. I can’t imagine she’d have it any other way.
“Harrumph,” Claire says as she stabs a crouton and shoves it in her mouth.
From somewhere beneath the table, a phone rings. Everyone looks at each other, eyes questioning.
“Oh, that’s me. Excuse me,” Cole says, pulling his phone from his pocket. He stands, stepping out of the room, but even in the hallway, we can hear his muffled speaking. “Hello?” He’s quiet for a moment, presumably listening, and then says, “Yeah, I got it. No worries. You’re saving me from a boring family business dinner. I’ll see ya in a few.”
When he pokes his head around the corner, I half-expect Charles to demand that Cole sit his butt down for this ‘boring family business dinner’, but he doesn’t get the chance. Cole throws a two-fingered wave and says, “Duty calls. Nice to meet you, Elena, Claire. Make sure my brother takes care of you, Luna. He can be an asshole.”
I giggle in surprise as Cole disappears down the hall. Less than a half-second later, the front door opens and closes. Beneath the table, Carter puts his hand on my thigh, squeezing firmly, and my tiny laughter stops instantly. I can feel the weight of his touch, the power in his grip, and the heat spreading from his fingertips to my center. I squirm, not sure whether I want more or for him to stop, and Carter whispers out of the side of his mouth, “You okay?”
No, I’m not okay. This is madness. Complete and utter madness. Does he know what he’s doing to me? With his touches, his kisses, his . . . kindness? Is it some sort of joke—look at what I can do to the poor, young, inexperienced weirdo? Watch me wind her up and send her spinning?
If I were sitting on my couch at home, wearing sweats, with my tablet in my hands, watching this dinner on the TV screen, this whole thing would be hilarious. Everyone is cutting each other with verbal knives, the tension is palpable, and we’ve barely been served our salads.
But I’m not at home and this isn’t scripted for television. I’m right in the middle of the drama.
Hell, I’m part of the drama.
And that’s not usually how I roll. I prefer hiding on the outskirts, but with Carter at my side and his hand on my leg, this craziness seems manageable. Or at least enjoyable in a small, twisted way.
Like improv dinner theater. As long as it doesn’t turn into a murder mystery, I’m probably . . . maybe . . . sorta okay.
Maybe I can even help . . . if I talk about the one thing I’m comfortable discussing.
“Elena, did you see the news about the museum’s upcoming exhibition? The month-long showing of Digital Immersion Through Virtual Reality. It’s ground-breaking technology that’ll bring art to life in a new way. Maeve—that’s my boss—is organizing the installation, and I’ll do tours with groups as they approach the pieces in our world and then use VR headsets to dive into them in an immersive way, where it seems as though they’re a part the art, able to trace brushstrokes with their fingertips, move about the scene, and more.”