A body warmed Quin’s side a moment before Waryn said, “Brace yourself, your mother is looking for you. Some liquid courage may be in order.”
Releasing the emerald pendant she’d been fidgeting with; Quin straightened her posture and reflexively accepted the champagne flute. “Oh, thank you. Where is she?”
“I managed to entangle her in a conversation with the Chief of Police, so I hopefully bought you some time. Bottom’s up, my dear.” He clinked their glasses together before taking a sip. Then he turned to Glyma, who was watching them both intensely, and said, “I couldn’t help but witness you making Quin laugh, which—between you and me—she’s never done at one of these shindigs.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” Quin reprimanded, but Waryn was neck-deep in his charming, social persona, so he ignored her.
“So either you have managed to charm her within minutes of your meeting, and trust me, Quin is difficult to charm.” His hand landed on her waist, and Glyma’s gaze zeroed in on the innocent, but obvious touch.
“Waryn,” Quin hissed, cheeks heating in embarrassment as understanding dawned on the Succubus’s face.
“Or,” Waryn continued, giving Quin’s waist a reassuring squeeze, “you two already know each other.”
There wasn’t a question in any part of his little speech, but Quin answered anyway before he could say anything else embarrassing. “This is Glyma. She made the kriltcake you loved so much.”
“This is Miss Purgatory Cafe?” he said with genuine excitement in his voice.
Glyma appeared caught somewhere between confusion, worry, and something akin to disappointment as she stammered out, “Well, I don’t—I mean, nothing’s set in stone or anything. I just—”
“Oh, it’s a brilliant idea. I told Quin that. Absolutely genius.”
“Th-thank you,” Glyma said in bewilderment at his enthusiasm.
“It’s an untapped market,” Waryn said, “and everyone knows it’s best to be the first. Get in before anyone else thinks of it. Honestly, I’m surprised it hasn’t happened yet.”
“Let’s not talk shop,” Quin said stiffly.
Finally catching on to her discomfort, Waryn conceded. “Of course. Do forgive me. Glyma, was it? I was simply enraptured by the whole idea, and I do hope you pursue it.”
“Thank you. I mean, yes, I, uh… I guess we’ll see what happens,” Glyma finally said as she offered Quin a reserved smile. “Sorry, I need to get back to—”
She gestured to the cake she was serving, and Quin nodded. “Of course.”
“Incoming,” Waryn said in a hushed whisper disguised as a peck to her head.
Oh gods, no. Not here, where Glyma would play witness. But it was already too late. Quin’s mother was gliding toward them, smiling grandly at everyone she passed.
To anyone who hadn’t grown up with Claryn Duboi as their mother, she was a friendly and caring person, always remembering to send flowers when someone was ill or a bottleof wine on an anniversary. She knew everyone’s names, and she never forgot a face.
But Quin knew better. Claryn Duboi was alwayson. Always watching, always listening. While everyone else played checkers, Claryn was playing chess. Always.
As she approached, Quin lifted her chin and straightened her spine, locking every muscle into perfect posture. She was a statue. She was marble and stone, metal and steel.
“Quinastasia, darling, there you are,” her mother sang from several feet away, arms outstretched in mock invitation to an embrace, and numerous heads turned in their direction to watch the spectacle unfold. “Everyone’s been asking for you, and I had to tell them, ‘Oh, you know our Quin, loves to make an entrance.’”
Sharp-nailed fingers grasped Quin’s shoulders tightly, and she forced her grimace into a smile as her mother noisily air-kissed near her cheeks. “We arrived on time, Mother.”
“Of course, you did. It was all in good fun, dear. Don’t be so sensitive.” Leaning back, still gripping Quin by the shoulders, her mother inspected her, thin brows drawing down ever so slightly, and Quin’s gut clenched. “Your hair is down. It’s nice but maybe a bit pedestrian? And it’s making your face look a little…” She puffed out her cheeks before offering Quin a condescending smile. “I just think it looks so much better up. Don’t you think her hair looks better up, Waryn?”
Picking and prodding at Quin’s hair, her mother turned expectantly to Waryn. His smile was thin but cordial as he said, “I think she is ravishing in every hair style.”
“Oh, you charmer,” Claryn cooed, giving his cheek a pat. “I don’t know how Quin ever landed you. If I was ten years younger…” She tutted, empty and grating, and it set Quin’s teeth on edge. “Oh, Quin, don’t give me that look. I’m joking! Where’s your sense of humor?”
Quin kept her expression neutral and unbothered as her mother patted Waryn’s cheek again, then his chest. Then she cocked her head and frowned at Quin’s dress next. “Why didn’t you wear the dress I sent? This one is lovely, of course, but the color’s a bit dark for your complexion, don’t you think, sweetheart?”
“This is the dress—” Quin tried to say, but her mother interrupted before she could finish.
“I do prefer you in lighter colors. Don’t you think lighter colors would suit her better, Waryn?”
