Viv loved to be useful. To beclever. She would never forgive Jacob for presuming her presence worthless, her mind incapable of adding any value to the discussion.
She also declined to forgive him for wearing whatever subtle cologne currently wafted to her nostrils while she was seated right next to him. He smelled like holiday spices and deep forest. Dark and inviting, all at once. A barely there scent designed to tempt innocent women into crawling onto his lap and wrapping their limbs about his hard, muscular body in an attempt to get closer to that divine perfume.
Or maybe that was how Jacob naturally smelled. Viv wouldn’t put it past him. Wynchesters were devious like that.
Marjorie clapped her hands loudly. “Before we begin, Adrian and I have a ray of sunshine of our own.”
Kuni gasped. “Are you also—”
“No! Not yet, at least.” Marjorie’s face flushed bright red.
“Our news is about our other baby,” Adrian explained. “The art studio. Our second annual exposition showcasing the works of past students.”
Marjorie nodded. “It won’t take place for another month, but we’re starting to plan the festivities now. If any of you would like to help—”
“Who has time to help?” murmured Tommy. “We can’t go five minutes anymore without something else looming over us.” She clapped a hand over her mouth and paled. “Kuni and Graham, I don’t mean your baby! That’s marvelous news! And so are your and Adrian’s achievements, Marjorie. I meant… I was only…”
Against her will, Viv felt a pang of sympathy for Tommy. Loved ones growing up and doing positive adult things sometimes did feel like a disaster for those around them. Especially when one’s time and mental fortitude were already stretched well past the breaking point.
“Maybe it was the wrong time to bring up the exposition.” Marjorie exchanged a nervous glance with her husband. “It’s just that… Jacob, I wouldloveif you would say a few words and give the official toast.”
He stared at her in disbelief.
“It doesn’t have to rhyme,” she said quickly. “But if you’d like to throw in a poem or two for good measure—”
“No.” He shook his head. “Absolutely not.”
She tilted her head. “No to which part? The toast, or the rhyming?”
“All of it. Give your own speech. It’s your party.”
“But this would give you a public platform to—”
“Being privately rejected by some publisher’s secretary stings quite enough. I don’t need to be mocked or judged by a hundred artistes.”
“Two hundred,” Adrian murmured. “It’s a big party.”
“Jacob—” began Marjorie.
“He said no,” Kuni said firmly. “Which you should respect. After all, don’tyouhave a secret project you don’t want anyone looking at until you’re ready?”
Marjorie bit her lip.
“She does indeed,” agreed Graham. “There’s an entire wall of easels whose canvases she keeps covered in burlap to prevent us from peeking.”
“All right, all right,” Marjorie muttered. “Jacob, if you change your mind, the master of ceremonies position is yours.”
“It’s already gone from ‘make a brief toast’ to ‘master of ceremonies’?” Jacob’s entire form radiated tenseness. “Should I flee now before you start expecting me to run for speaker of the House of Commons?”
“Olivebury is the most likely contender for that role,” said Graham. “Which brings us back to…”
As he talked, Jacob made several strange hand gestures across the room.
Viv blinked at him. “Is that supposed to mean something?”
“Arguing with my sisters,” he muttered.
Belatedly, Viv remembered Marjorie was deaf in one ear. “Sign language,” she said in sudden understanding.
