Going out usually means bars where I can lick barbecue sauce off my fingers and sing along when I’ve had one too many drinks, not six courses and strained conversation. The only plus is that my assigned seat (seriously, I can’t make this shit up) is between my two favorite people.
Dinner is every bit as awkward as I expected, and Kyle is relentlessly smug, although he does shut up several times in deference to his father.
Interesting. I wonder if we can use that.
I do get to finally complete my set of Bradbury siblings when Dale arrives. He’s late, a fact Richard doesn’t let pass unnoticed, and from his scathing commentary, must be typical.
Dale reminds me of every owner of a regional car dealership that does its own ads. Thinning hair to match his brother’s, an air of arrogance, a little round everywhere. He looks like the kind of guy who wears socks under sandals.
He, too, slips into younger brother mode tonight, his posture sagging every time Richard talks over him. Dale’s wife keeps herself as invisible as Helen does, and I keep coming back to the same question — why would anyone willingly come back here?
Meanwhile, Betty is exactly as Lincoln described, a shock of white hair pinned back with a bright blue clasp. She’s shorter than me, four-foot-nine at best, and barely says a word when we’re introduced. But she’s the first person to smile at me, so I already like her.
Not so welcoming is Joe, who scowls his way through every bite. He might be the only person who wants out of here more than I do. With hair as silver as Lincoln’s eyes, the only time his mask cracks is when Art, in a blaring yellow-patterned shirt, whispers something in his ear. I can’t be sure in the candlelight, but I could swear Joe smiles. I’d sell my grandmother to know what they’re gossiping about.
It’s a relief to see Astrid again. I don’t know what she did in Paris, but she’s practically glowing. “How was your trip?” I ask, desperate for details and a distraction.
“Wonderful. It went better than I could have hoped,” she says, and is being cryptic a rule in this family or what?
It must have been good, because I can’t get any other details from her throughout the main course.
Apart from Kyle’s insidious grin disgusting me from the other end of the table, it’s a pretty dull event. Richard is sullen, like he resents us all for being here, even though he’s the one who invited us, and everyone eats quickly, like we all silently agreed to get the first night over as quickly as possible.
In fact, I’m so eager to get away that it isn’t until Lincoln unlocks our door (with an antique key, no less; Jesus fuck, rich people are dramatic), that I remember one glaring problem.
One huge, pillow-topped, Egyptian-sheeted, canopied, bed-sized problem.
“You should take the bed tonight,” I blurt, already rolling my suitcase over to the chaise. “I can suffer on the space couch.” My back will file several complaints, but better me than Lincoln. If I see him hanging off this thing, I’ll laugh myself into an early grave.
“No.” He throws his duffel onto the seat and steps in front of me, guiding me by the shoulders back to the bed. “I’m definitely not letting you sleep on that thing. I’ll be fine.”
The words jump so quickly to my tongue it’s as if they were waiting in the wings for this very moment. “We could share.”
Lincoln’s gaze meets mine. His hair is cavalier, windswept. Gorgeous.
I’ve never used the word debonair to describe anyone in my life, but now I take a mental picture of Lincoln in his black shirt and strong jaw, and I frame it under the word within my memory.
“It’s a very tempting offer,” he eventually says.
I couldn’t agree more.
“Extremely tempting,” I say, my breath hitching when his eyes dart down to my lips. In fact, I think I stop breathing entirely while I wait for him to kiss me, but when he leans in, it’s only to kiss my cheek instead.
The disappointment hits hard and fast, and I shuffle into the bathroom before he can see it on my face.
Fil was right. I can’t keep this up.
When I finally emerge in my tank top and shorts, Lincoln has changed into the white shirt/gray sweats combo I’m used to.
I roll over as far to my side as I can, putting my back to him. But Lincoln isn’t as cautious. As soon as he’s under the covers, he grabs my waist and hauls me halfway across the bed so I’m tucked in tight against his chest.
“That’s better,” he says, his voice a low rumble in my ear. He smells of the mint toothpaste I stole off him (I forgot mine, okay? I was very busy panicking this morning).
Grabbing his hand, I pull him tighter around me. If this weekend is all I get, I’m damn well going to enjoy it.
The seconds tick by. Lincoln is hot at my back while the cold night air chills my exposed shoulders. Usually, I like leaving a window open at night, hearing the sounds of cars and people passing by. Sometimes Armando has a party, and I get lulled to sleep with impromptu karaoke.
It’s void of sound here. No music, no laughter, no life at all.
