“Darling!” Bridget shrieks, hurrying back toward us. She flashes an overly wide smile to compensate for her addiction to Botox. “Don’t you look handsome?”
Vincent grunts and heads straight for the coffee Easton already prepared. He takes a sip, twists his lips in distaste, and dumps the contents into the sink.
Easton’s jaw ticks, but he’s quick to wipe the look clean and return to watching me pretend to work on his face. I’m already done, but there’s no way I’m leaving him to the wolves.
“Morning, Eva,” Vincent sighs tiredly as he starts a fresh pot of coffee. “Are you doing all right?”
“Um ...” I glance from Easton to Vincent’s suit-clad form, then back again. I hate when Vincent does this, pretends to care about me when Easton’s in the room. But I also know how delicate my situation under this roof is. “Yeah. Thank you.”
“Oh, honey. The coffee pot’s broken. Nearly gave me third-degree burns a moment ago.”
The bubbling sound of brewing starts, and Vincent eyes his wife dryly.
Bridget frowns. “Well, isn’t that funny?”
“Hilarious,” Vincent mutters.
Bridget moves toward me and wraps an arm around my waist. “I was just telling Eva how beautiful she looks today. Wasn’t I, Eva, honey?”
“You, what?” I look at Bridget, who is uncomfortably close.
Her eyes feign concern, and she says to me, “Maybe we need to get your hearing checked. I’ve had to repeat myself multiple times this morning.”
“No, you haven’t—”
“Darling.” She turns, taking a few steps toward Vincent, and relief floods me at the small stretch of distance between us again. “We were just talking about how well Isaac is doing at Yale. Honestly, I shouldn’t be so surprised every time he exceeds my expectations.”
There should be a contest called ‘How many shit-sandwiches can one set of parents shove down their son’s throat before school?’ I try to keep the irritation from my expression, returning my focus to distracting Easton, but Bridget does not let up.
“I always said he would do big things. I just wish I could say the same for both our sons.”
I know I’m losing Easton when a muscle in his neck spasms. I pretend to blend the foundation, moving my fingers down his jaw in a deliberate caress and making sure he sees only me. But I can only do so much.
Bridget leans toward her husband and attempts to rub his shoulders. He shakes her hands off, grabs his coffee and briefcase, then exits the kitchen without a word. Bridget clears her throat. She runs her fingers across her pearl necklace, and I notice they tremble slightly. She stares after Vincent’s disappearing form for several seconds before shifting her focus back to Easton, and this time, she broaches the one subject that’s a foolproof way to get a reaction out of him.
“I spoke to Addison Monclay’s mother the other day.” Her movements are controlled as she walks leisurely across the wooden floors, finding another window with drawn curtains to open, wince at, and shut. “She said Addison and Charles broke up. Cheating, or something. Awful, I know, but anyway, I emailed your brother a recent picture, just a little something her mother sent me.”
Easton’s shoulders tense. It doesn’t matter that Isaac came out to his parents years ago; Bridget will pretend her perfect son is straight until the day she dies.
“Have youseenthe woman’s cheekbones? The pair of them would make some beautiful babies.”
I can feel the moment Easton starts to crack. His body heat intensifies, warming my skin.
“Hmm. I should invite her to the party. Perhaps I will try calling Isaac again after all.”
Easton’s head jerks toward his mother. I catch his cheek with my palm, slowly angling his head back toward me, as Bridget moves to yet another window and drones on about Addison.
His eyes are liquid amber when they focus on me.
“It’s not worth it,” I say quietly, so only he can hear.
He arches a brow, challenging me to give him one good reason.
I stare at Easton’s cheek, running my thumb down the side of his face. As far as he can tell, I’m just checking for remaining signs of the bruise, but the truth is, my heart thrums against my rib cage as though being pulled toward him by a magnetic force. It’s not a new feeling, and I never know if the fact should comfort or scare me.
“Trust me,” I whisper. “You’re only gonna say something you’ll regret.”
To my surprise, Easton responds. His voice is calm, but something dark seeps from the edges. “Maybe she deserves it.”
