My mouth is almost too dry to form words, but I somehow say, “Just wanted to tell you that my family’s on their way. We’ll be having dinner together.”
At that, her smile takes on a pained quality, laptop forgotten as she sits up. The motion draws my eyes down to the swell of her breasts peeking out above the edge of the towel. It would be so easy for the fabric to come untucked, to slip down, to show me more of her…
“Oh boy,” she exhales, dragging me out of the thoughts I shouldn’t be having. She’s made it abundantly clear where she stands on us having a physical relationship, and even fantasizing feels out of bounds. “You think we’re going to pass their tests?”
As I consider the question, she gets up from bed and pads over to the wardrobe, where she’s unpacked and hung up her outfits.
“I’ve got to hope.” I step forward when she’s about to push past a classic black dress, putting my hand on top of hers. “Wear that one.”
She glances back at me, eyes finding mine for one heated second. There’s no way she can’t tell what I’m thinking or even feel it radiating off me. And I’m sure I feel it in return in the way her gaze flicks over me.
She drops her hand before either of us can make a mistake. “Black dress it is.”
The breathless words betray her outward composure. She’s just as affected as I am. It’s both a comfort and a torture; knowing we both wantsomethingto happen is difficult to reconcile with the fact that we shouldn’t let it.
“Now get out so I can get dressed,” she demands, shooing me toward the door.
“Come on, I’m your husband,” I cajole with a grin. “Don’t you want my help doing up the zipper?”
“I’m afraid it will never get zipped if you stay. Nowout.”
The door shuts in my face before I can process her words. When I do, I fear she might have been right.
“Do we have to wait for someone to announce our grand entrance or can we just go in?”
Stella’s whispered question as we approach the dining room has me stifling a snicker. I don’t know where she’s getting all these ideas of how things work around here. Maybe she needs to lay off the Jane Austen.
“No announcement necessary.” I offer my elbow to her. “You ready?”
Stella blows out a breath and rolls her shoulders a few times before sliding her hand into the crook of my arm. She’s like an athlete preparing for the biggest competition of her life. In a way, I guess this is all a game, so I won’t begrudge her the preparations.
“Okay, let’s do this.”
Voices rumble from the other side of the broad oak doors as we approach. The clink of glasses and a few laughs tell me Mum must be bartending already. All I can hope is that everyone stayshappydrunk instead oflet’s lay out all our family drama in front of companydrunk. It’s happened a few too many times to count, and Stella doesn’t need to face that this early into our marriage.
Everyone is milling around the vast room when we step in. Edith’s spawn rip and race past the long table and the sideboardwhere Mum is wielding a cocktail shaker with concerning gusto. Andrew stands off to her side, gloomily sipping an espresso martini as he eyes his heavily pregnant wife sitting at the table, who in turn is watching my mother with longing in her eyes as another drink is poured.
Dad is chatting with Edith’s husband, who nods a little too enthusiastically at everything the man says, a habit of his ever since Dad announced his plans to retire in the next five years—as if his suck-up act will get Dad to name Edith CEO. Edith herself is having an animated conversation on the phone, pacing circles in the corner and throwing a disgruntled hand up every so often. Business, undoubtedly. Even with Dad still technically running A.P. Maxwell International, she’s the one keeping everything afloat.
Calais is the first to notice our entrance, elbowing Geneva in the ribs. They aren’t twins, just barely two years apart, but they look and act more alike than the rest of us. Calais is wearing one of her own designs tonight, likely something from the new collection that I was forced to see as I sat front row at her last show. It’s bright and floral and would look more at home on a beach in Florida than in England in winter. By contrast, Geneva’s lime-green puff-sleeved dress is tame. As a model, she’s worn far worse, but it’s still an eyesore by my standards.
“Thomas!” Calais exclaims, spreading her arms wide as she approaches. Her grin is nothing short of devilish. “And Stella Margaux! Welcome, welcome!”
I notice the last person in the room when her head whips toward us, having previously been half-hidden behind Mum. Figgy’s eyes go from wide to narrowed to perfectly angelic in the time it takes me to blink, her face lighting up when she notices me looking. I swallow back a groan, praying I haven’t just given her the wrong idea.
As Calais comes over to pat my cheek a little too hard and then exchange double air kisses with Stella, gushing over her outfit choice, Mum swans over with two espresso martinis in hand.
“My newest daughter-in-law!” she greets, and I swear there are tears in her eyes. Based on how she’s beaming, they’re happy tears. “Oh, darling, it’s so wonderful to finally meet you. Thomas has kept us at such an arm’s length, but I’ve beendyingto get you here.”
Mum then shoves one martini at me and another at Stella, motioning for us to drink up. I take a sip, wincing at the burn of straight vodka with a splash of coffee liqueur. Before Stella can even take a swig of hers, she’s being herded away from me by Mum, Calais, and Geneva. I make to follow, but Figgy slides into my path.
“Is Stella enjoying herself?” she asks. “She seemed a little intimidated when she first walked in.”
It’s such a lie that I almost let loose a guffaw. She must be saying this to make herself feel better, because Stella couldn’t have held her head any higher.
“She’s loving it,” I answer, sparing a glance in Stella’s direction to make sure she’s all right. From what I can see, she’s already charming my mother, smile wide and eyes sparkling. “I’m going to take her on a tour of the area tomorrow, show her all the Cotswolds has to offer.”
Figgy, to her credit, doesn’t let her easy demeanor fade. “Just don’t take her to all our secret places,” she teases. “Not that I think she’d want to hang out with Mr. Duggan’s sheep. She seems a little high-maintenance for that.”
