Mr Spencer (Mr. 2) - Page 215
“Let’s have something to drink.” Charlotte smiles hopefully, gesturing to the dining table for us all to sit down.
My heart swells with empathy. My poor angel.
“That would be nice.” I fake a smile and take a seat.
“Abigail!” Charlotte calls.
A middle-aged woman in a uniform appears immediately. “Yes, Charlotte.”
“May we have some drinks, please?”
“Of course. What can I get you?”
She looks around at us, twisting her hands nervously in front of her. “Three scotch on the rocks, and a ….” She frowns to herself. “Make it four scotch on the rocks.”
Abigail nods. “Very well.”
Edward frowns. “You don’t drink scotch.”
Charlotte nods nervously. “I do tonight.”
“Charlotte and her guest will be staying for dinner,” Harold says.
“Yes, sir.” Abigail smiles, and with a graceful nod she disappears from the room.
Harold sits at the head of the table, Charlotte next to him, and I sit beside her. Edward is opposite Charlotte. Who the other twenty-four seats are for is anyone’s guess.
Who has a dining table this big?
Edward sits back in his seat, eyes fixed on me. “So, where did you two meet?”
“It was through work,” Charlotte immediately fires back.
What’s she doing? We didn’t meet through work.
“We’ve known each other for a long time. We’ve become good friends,” she says softly as our drinks arrive.
“Thank you.” I take my drink from the male waiter. How many staff do they have?
“It should stay that way,” Edward retorts.
I roll my lips to keep myself from getting up and hitting this fucker in the head.
“You don’t even know me,” I say calmly.
“I know I don’t like you. That’s all I need to know.”
I turn my attention to Harold. “Mr Prescott, with all due respect, I would like for Charlotte and myself to talk to you without Edward here.”
Edward slams his hand onto the table. “Go to fucking hell, this is my house.”
“And you’re acting irrational.”
Harold pinches the bridge of his nose. “Edward, enough!” he snaps.
Charlotte slides her hand into mine on my lap.
“The stories you have read in the magazines are mostly untrue,” I begin.
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