Her nose scrunches. “I’m not a celebrity. I sign books. That’s not at all the same as giving out autographs.”
“People spend money on your signature, do they not?” I ask.
Her lower lip juts out, and she doesn’t answer.
I remind myself that her parents are in the room, her brother is in the room, and Ilikedenying myself the instant gratification I so dearly desire. Then, I pointedlydo notkiss her lower lip.
“Lia’s not a celebrity,” Fred scoffs, adding a fifth sugar crystal to his tea. “Nobody recognizes her at the grocery store.”
My lips twitch. “No one recognizes me at the grocery store, either.” I sigh, flopping my peasant head toward my peasant wife. “No PR marriage for us, then, my love. I’m sorry. I know how much you were looking forward to it.”
Her sigh echoes mine as she sets the back of her hand against her forehead. “Alack,” she cries. “My dreams, crushed.”
“Goodness,” Mr. Prim mutters. “There’s two of them.”
“Three,” Fred corrects. “Mom’s also dramatic and ridiculous.”
“Fred!” she admonishes.
“Oh, sorry, did we not just taketwelvecasket catalogues to the recycling center?”
She sniffs. “Your sister was on the lam,” she says. “What else was I supposed to think?”
Fred’s eyebrows slam together, bewilderment sliding over his hazel eyes. “That she ran off to elope with her apparently-not-a-celebrity crush in the woods on the other side of the state,” he answers. “Duh.”
Mrs. Prim sets her tea cup down with a mild clang. “Well. Excuse me for thinking she’d have a better head on her shoulders.”
“Andi,” Mr. Prim mutters, placing a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Not yet.”
“Not yet?” Sarelia asks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Mrs. Prim inhales roughly, then exhales. “Nothing, Lia. We can discuss it later.”
Sarelia frowns.
I reach beneath the table to rest my hand on her thigh, and her fingers cover mine.
“Fine,” she agrees, tightening her grip on me. “We can discuss it later.”
“Fun,” Fred mutters beneath the glare of his parents.
“For now, let’s just enjoy our first night together, okay?” Mr. Prim suggests, then immediately changes the subject, ignoring the discontented expressions on the faces of his wife and daughter. “Did I hear a cat meowing as we came in?”
Sarelia tenses, then sighs, letting her head fall to my shoulder as she winds her fingers through mine. “Yes,” she answers. “We’ve adopted a cat.”
Her mother’s mouth purses.
“Her name is Pesky, and she’s hideous,” Sarelia continues. “We love her.”
“How hideous?” Fred asks.
“The ugliest cat you’ve ever seen,” she tells him. “She looks like she had a ride through a wood chipper.”
“Sick,” he replies.
“You know cats are a lot of responsibility, right?” Mrs. Prim asks, apparently unable to keep it in.
Her husband exhales. Loudly. “It’s getting late,” he says. “Maybe we should pick our visit back up in the morning.”
