Then Great-Grandma’s lips part slowly.
My eyeballs bulge out of their sockets as Humphrey feeds the pizza to my great-grandmother.
I beg your pardon?
The elderly woman chews slowly, and Humphrey patiently waits for her reaction, his eyes never leaving hers.
Finally, the tiniest smile wobbles on the edges of her mouth.
“Not bad, right?” Humphrey asks.
Great-Grandma hesitates. Then her eyes go girlish and shy. “Not bad at all.”
Throughout the interaction, my eyes don’t blink once. My head snaps over to Martha. When our eyes meet, she lowers her gaze and tucks her chin to her chest to conceal her knowing grin.
What the…?
But then a concept settles into my brain. Looks like my Great-Grandma might be willing to take a new chance at love. And what about me? Might I be willing to take one, too?
43
JULES
Istare around at the high ceilings and Roman-style pillars of the elegant ballroom, and my thoughts are doing acrobatics inside my head.
My tattoos. Oh my god. I should have covered up my tattoos. I should have picked out a dress with long sleeves and a turtleneck to cover my tattoos.
And is my hair okay? Should I have worn it straight instead of doing these barrel curls? Should I have forced my short strands into a chic updo? Or maybe I should have gotten some clip-in extensions? Hell—should I have just shaved my head bald and stayed home?
All of a sudden, everything about me feels absolutely inadequate. After my years spent mastering the Lannister family dinners, I thought I was an expert at deflecting elitist vibes. But this charity gala is ten times worse than what I’m used to.
I watch the elegant couples chitchatting and fake-laughing at the tables spread out across the room. There are billionaires here. Beauty queens. I even heard someone whispering that the king and queen of Ridgeland are somewhere in the crowd.
Across the room, I can see my half-sister, Hilary. She looks like a Barbie in that pink princess gown. She’s chatting with a few of her friends. On more than one occasion, I’ve looked up only to find them whispering and giggling about me. It’s clear that I’m ontheirturf, and they’ll do anything in their power to make sure I’m as uncomfortable as possible all night. It only makes my insecurities scream louder.
I don’t like myself when I get like this.
I don’t like the version of me that gets tense and uneasy in my own skin. She hardly ever rears her head in public these days, but when she does, she’s such a damn bitch.
My body language must be a dead giveaway of my inner thoughts, because Lincoln’s hand finds mine under the table and he leans in by my ear. “Don’t do that…” he whispers.
I smooth a hand over my hair, worried that I’m getting everything all wrong. Good etiquette was never my strong suit. “What am I doing?” I whisper back as I try to maintain a steady tone.
“Don’t make yourself small for the sake of these rich assholes,” he responds.
When I meet his eyes, he gives me a soft stare that radiates protectiveness.
I try to brush off his worry. But my dismissive laugh comes out more like a trapped animal wheezing for air. “I’m not making myself small for anyone,” I say defiantly.
“Babe, your shoulders are hunched up to your ears and you haven’t taken a full breath since we left the car.”
Around our table, Lincoln’s associates are comparing yachts and debating investment strategies. Yet my husband’s attention is trained solely on me. Something about that makes me tingle from head to toe.
I want to lie. I want to tell him that he’s imagining things. But I take one look at the genuine concern on his face, and I can’t.
He stretches a hand out in my direction, rising to his feet. He addresses his business associates. “If you’ll excuse me, I just can’t wait another minute to dance with my beautiful wife.”
I let him lead me to the middle of the room and take me into his arms. He brushes my bangs away from my eyes and we start to sway to the music. “Tell me what’s wrong.” he demands softly.
