I pluck three biscuits from the tin, stuffing one in my mouth whole.
“Stress-eating again, Gemma?”
I cringe at Louise’s condescending tone, turning around to face her. I pop my hip, and instead of responding verbally, I chew with my mouth open—loudly—right in front of her. When I swallow it, I flash her a saccharine smile.
Her perfectly made-up face contorts in disgust.
“That’s revolting,” she says.
“Did Satan send you up for a lunch break?” I ask.
“It isn’t even lunchtime,” she says, narrowing her eyes to frosty slits.
“Oh, you’re right. You must be on your regularly scheduled bitching hour, then. My mistake.” I toss another biscuit in my mouth, refusing to break eye contact.
She crosses her arms. “Ugh. Do you know how many calories are in those things?”
I hold my arms out wide. “Oh no! Looks like I’m fresh out of fucks to give.”
“Whatever,” she says, her smile razor thin as she flicks her glossy ponytail. “Sugar ages your skin and goes straight to your thighs. If I were you, I’d be more mindful.”
I cock my head to the side. “Are you acting like this because you’re shitty you didn’t get my job?”
“You don’t deserve it. That role should bemine,” she seethes.
“Tell me, does your back hurt from lugging that horrible personality around?”
Her nostrils flare. “Does your heart hurt getting clogged by all that butter?” Her gaze darts to the last biscuit in my hand.
I bark a laugh, genuine amusement slicing through my irritation. “Sweetheart, part of me is getting clogged on the regular, and I can tell you right now—it’s not from butter.”
She rolls her eyes and swivels on her heels, only to come face-to-face with Henry, who’s just entered the kitchenette. His eyes bounce between Louise and me, his expression morphing into something resembling suspicion.
“What are you looking at?” she spits at him, darting around his broad frame to make her escape.
“Wait!” I call out as she retreats down the hallway. “You forgot your pitchfork!”
She grumbles something unintelligible as she rounds the corner, the click of her heels fading as she disappears.
Henry stands stock still, a perplexed look on his face. “What was that all about?”
I brush it off with a wave. “Nothing. She just has sand in her vagina.” I notice the two cups of coffee in his hand. “Oh, thank you, but I already had a coffee.”
He scrunches his brows, his expression darkening. “This isn’t for you.”
“Who’s it for?” I ask, though an inkling in my gut already tells me the answer.
His smile is so wide it worries me.
“Max,” he says.
I frown, confused. “Why are you buying Max coffee?”
“Because you and Max are taking a little day trip out to visit Lord Harrington’s estate to view his private collection.”
“Why aren’t you coming?” The question comes out more desperate than intended.
“I have things to get through here,” Henry says, looking far too pleased with himself, like a cat who’s found a bowl of cream. The turd.
