Before I can stop myself—well, not true, I could have stopped myself, I just didn’t feel like it—I give him a slow, theatrical once-over.
“Peasant? Are you under the impression this is a monarchy? Must be hard ruling a kingdom when your biggest—” I shoot a pointed glare at his lap. "—asset—is how much stuff you can cram into sixteen pockets.”
Chance’s fork freezes halfway to his mouth.
Direct. Fucking. Hit.
That’s right bitches!
With my verbal carnage delivered, I pivot dramatically—as dramatically as one can when the room’s leaning a little to the left—grab my waffle, and cram a massive bite into my mouth.
I ignore my mother’s glare and focus on the crisp, buttery perfection exploding in my mouth. Syrup drizzled with finesse. The total opposite of soldier boy’s?—
“Kitten,” Blake’s voice slides greasily across the table. “Would you pass the butter?”
Freezing mid-chew, I barely manage to suppress a snarl.
A spoon clatters to a plate. Whose, I don’t know.
Charlie's head snaps up.
Even Eve's pierced eyebrow arches with predatory interest.
Our fathers still prattle on like his corporate dingleberry didn’t just march into battle armed with nothing but a pair of knockoff superhero underoos and a helmet with a lower protection rating than a foil hat.
“Pass the butter?” A shiver of disgust crawls down my spine. I fix him with a flat stare, his words obliterating my buzz with the precision of catching your parents mid-grind.
“Sure. Want me to butter your toast while I’m at it, or do you think you can manage that one on your own,champ?”
Champ ends on a satisfyingly distinct pop, making his jaw tick and the vein in his temple throb.
Jokes on you, Bitch Boy. It’s sexy when Chance does it.
Not that I noticed.
"Princess," he tries again, "perhaps you'd like to?—"
"Listen here, murder muffin." I lean forward, stabbing another bite of waffle. "Unless the next words out of your mouth are 'I'm leaving,' Shut it."
Nick chokes on his coffee.
Our dads fall silent, darting looks between us like they’ve been frolicking through a Mary Poppins daydream, only to realize they’ve wandered straight into a war zone."
“Sooooo, Holly,” Mrs. McAllister chirps, “Remember those winter formal dances we used to host here? You girls would spend hours getting ready?—"
Smooth transition you got there, Dick’s mom. Real smooth.
"And the boys would spend hours avoiding it," Charlie adds with a forced laugh.
"Until Sierra talked them into it," my mother adds with a knowing smile.
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees, or maybe that’s the rest of my buzz packing its bags for the fucking Bahamas.
As if summoned by her name alone, a tall blonde appears in the doorway, looking like she just stepped out of a winter wonderland photo shoot.
Because of course she does.
"Has anyone seen Everett?" Sierra's voice carries that hint of cultured polish that makes my skin itch.
