Yet that’s the way it must stay.
I blow out another breath and force a wide grin. “It’s nothing to be concerned about, Angie. I’ll consider my attendance at the wedding, and I’ll write to you by next Monday if I decide to go.”
She studies my face for several quiet moments before she gives me a sad smile. “Very well. I hope you choose to go. Not just for my sake but for Thorne and Briony’s. They want you at their wedding.”
My chest warms at her words. She’s right. Thorne wouldn’t have used quite so many expletives if he didn’t. It fills me with equal parts gratification and guilt. There were several years when my relationship with Thorne was tense. I’d pushed him so far away that he almost stopped considering me a friend. I’ve managed to mend our relationship somewhat in the last few years, enough that he truly wants me at his wedding. Yet going to his wedding means missing a loan payment. Which means my lender will move my loan’s due date another week forward. Another week sooner that my family’s secret is set to be revealed. Do I risk it?
I reiterate my promise to consider the invitation and give my sister a parting hug. After I’m left alone in my office, I simply sit and smoke and stare and think. No answers come to me, and when I gather the will to return to my work, not even my love for Mondays can replenish my mood.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DAPHNE
There’s a half-naked man and a sobbing girl in my parlor. This is not the Saturday I was looking forward to all week, having anticipated only one of these aspects. But when Araminta arrived unannounced at my apartment door this morning with puffy eyes, I couldn’t turn her away. Now she lies face down on my settee in seelie form and her usual mourning attire.
Monty, who only recently arrived, stands at my bureau in the same position I had him in during our sketching session. Like before, he grips the pillow in place of the heroine on my canvas. With a furrow of his brow, he flicks his gaze toward my settee. “Are you sure she’s all right?”
“This has been going on for two hours now,” I say, squeezing a dollop of cadmium red onto my palette. My canvas is propped on my easel, and the sight of it fills me with the medley of dread and excitement that always strikes when starting the painting stage. I’ve already finished the underpainting as well as some of the background. Now it’s time to paint the hero. “Pay her no mind.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“She ended things with David.”
Araminta bolts upright on the settee in a swish of her voluminous black skirts. “Heended things withme.”
I roll my eyes, blending the cadmium red with yellow ochre and white. “I thought you were growing tired of him anyway.”
She sniffles. “Yes, well, I wanted to be the one to end things withhim.”
I angle my body toward the settee. “Does it matter?”
“Oh, it does,” Monty says, drawing my attention back to him. “This is quite common, actually. One person will tolerate a courtship with indifference, if not downright dislike, only to fall apart and question their entire self-worth when the other person breaks things off with them. It’s the internalized perception that someone they didn’t even like had the audacity to like them less.”
“That’s exactly what this is,” Araminta says with an exuberant nod. “How dare he break up with me? I’m a prize. I’m incredibly cute.” The last word ends on a wail, her face crumpling.
My chest squeezes. As ridiculous as I think she’s being, I do feel for her. I may not have been driven to such unending tears, but I’ve been struck with emotional agony before. With a resigned sigh, I set down my palette and head for the kitchen, retrieving the one thing that always cheers me up when I’m feeling down.
I bend down, extending a plate before her. “Want some bacon?”
With a sniffle, she lifts her tear-stained face from her hands, looking from the plate to me. “Bacon? Why would I want bacon? More importantly, why do you have an entire plate of bacon at the ready in your kitchen?”
I pull the plate back. “It’s my favorite snack.”
She arches a brow. “Don’t you have chocolate? Wine? Something more comforting than snack bacon?”
“If you don’t appreciate it, you don’t have to have any.” I turn my nose up at her and take a bite of bacon out of spite.
On my way back to the kitchen, Monty stops me with his words. “I’ll have some bacon.”
“Don’t you dare move,” I say, just as he’s about to remove his hands from the pillow.
He tilts his head in an annoyingly coy look. “Please, Daffy Dear. Unlike little Ari here, I appreciate a good snack bacon.”
How can I say no to that? Anyone who appreciates delectable meat as much as I do deserves to be rewarded. I release a grumble and bring the plate to the bureau. “Don’t move anything but your mouth.”
“If you insist.”
I lift a piece of bacon to his lips, watching as they part. His tongue draws the thick cut of meat into his mouth, making my breath hitch. I’m drawn back to the memory of me licking candy floss from his fingers. And—more recently—when he teased me about the feel of my tongue. He holds my eyes as he reaches the end of the bacon. I’m about to pull my hand away when he closes his lips around my fingertips. I freeze, a jolt tearing through me at the swipe of his tongue followed by the pressure of a brief suckle.
