Something beeps in the kitchen. Esther wipes her hands on the apron. “Oh good, the food’s done. You all must be hungry. Let’s go eat.”
She guides us toward the dining room, which isn’t exactly grand, but big enough. The open floor design lets diners see the kitchen island. The hardwood on the dining room floor is lightly scarred from use over the years. But a careful layer of wax shows that it is lovingly cared for. The cherry-colored table has six chairs around it. It’s already set with a bowl of salad, some rolls and mashed potatoes with gravy.
Skittles takes the carnations and puts them in a vase. Esther walks into the kitchen and brings out a large covered dish. “Hope you like pot roast,” she says.
I inhale deeply. It smells like hearth and heaven. My mouth waters, and I grin at Esther. “I love food, especially when it’s home-cooked. I almost never have it.”
She looks at me like I’m some beggar out of a Dickens novel. “Is that so? If you want, I can pack some for you to take home. It’s better the next day.”
No way am I going to turn that down. If it’s half as good as it smells, I might just polish it off later tonight. “That sounds fabulous. Thank you.”
We all sit down. Steve takes the head of the table, Esther to his right and Skittles to the left. I sit next to her and enjoy the nearness and the subtle scent of her shampoo. It makes me hungrier, but for an entirely different reason that’s wholly inappropriate with her parents around.
Patience.
I can’t tell her what I’m planning to do with her parents listening. I want to make sure she isn’t already overloaded. The point is to monopolize her time, not make her work until she drops dead. I’ve considered telling her dad I want Skittles’ undivided attention on my hundred million, but that isn’t nearly enough money to make a man jump through a hoop.
Besides, this dinner is anything but social. It’s an inquisition to see if I’m a sociopathic loon. Poor Skittles—no wonder she’s so tense. I wish I could tell her I got this.
Everyone digs in. The food is amazing, everything perfectly seasoned and prepared. I wasn’t buttering Esther up earlier; I can’t remember the last time I had a homey meal like this.
Mom’s idea of cooking is whatever our housekeepers put together. When she wants to get fancy, she hires a professional chef to prepare a six-course meal.
I’d much rather eat Esther’s food than whatever lavish junk Mom’s chef can concoct.
Something taps my foot. I look down and see Nijinsky. I glance around surreptitiously then slip her a small piece of meat. She licks my fingers.
“This is a great choice.” Steve’s sudden remark makes me straighten and pay attention. “Didn’t know you were a connoisseur.”
“I’m not,” I say quickly before he decides to quiz me. I know a little about wine—like a few famous labels and vintages—but not like Tony. “I had a recommendation from a friend.” Or, more precisely, Ivy telling me to take whatever I wanted. But Steve doesn’t need to know that.
Steve nods, then concentrates on the bottle, slowly pulling out the corkscrew. “So tell me. What are you doing with my daughter?”
Damn, that’s blunt. Esther rolls her eyes and grabs a roll.
Skittles shoots me a look. Unless I’m mistaken, she’s even shaking her head a little. She obviously wants me to claim that there’s nothing serious between us. Except I don’t want to do that because I’d be lying. After all, we slept together. Had sex at least five times that I can remember. And I gave her at least twelve orgasms. That sounds pretty serious to me. Not that I’d say any of that in front of her mom and dad.
“I like Pascal,” I say. “And I’d like to continue to see her. I wouldn’t have gone to Maui if I didn’t feel that way.”
Beaming, Steve hands me a glass of rosé. I wait until everyone has a glass and a chance to clink, then take a sip. Damn. This is seriously excellent shit. Thank you, Tony. A point for moi.
“Good, good,” Steve says. “I did wonder about you last weekend. But it’s about time Pascal takes her personal life more seriously. Her sister's already married, but she’s still single.”
Guess her dad’s getting antsy. Well, well. Maybe Skittles is wrong about the dating equals no promotion thing.
“Daaaaad.”
Esther seems to take pity on her daughter. But not so much on me. “Court, when you came to Hawaii, you thought Pascal was marrying Joe. That had no effect on you at all?”
Her tone is polite, but the glitter in her eyes says she wanted to ask the second I showed up with the flowers and wine. And she isn’t the only one looking at me like I’m Moses holding the stone tablets. Steve is staring too.
I look at both of them, meeting their gazes. I’m so ready for this question. “I figured she had a reason. A woman happy with her fiancé wouldn’t have been with me. So I decided I owed it to us to at least look into what was going on. For all I knew, she could’ve been being forced into something.”
Pain explodes on the side of my calf, and I almost drop my fork. Skittles’ kick carries more viciousness than a horny goat forced into celibacy.
But if she thinks she can punt me into silence, she has another think coming. And regardless of what she said in Maui, there definitely is an “us.”
“And then what? What would you have done if she were being forced?” Steve asked, leaning forward. It’s almost like he’s living the hypothetical scenario I’ve concocted.