I took the seat to Jarod’s left. “Robin Hood was a robber and murderer who considered himself above the law and gained notoriety by being a petty criminal. You shouldn’t pick him as a rolemodel.”
That wiped the easygoing expression right off Jarod’s face. “You’re not a feather; you’re a quill,” hegrumbled.
Before I could tell him I wasn’t trying to make him mad, the tall double doors swept open, and Muriel trotted in along with two men wearing starched gray uniforms. While one placed embroidered placemats and fabric napkins folded like fans before us, the other set down dinner plates topped with roast chicken, thinly sliced carrots, and a dollop of what smelled like mashedpotatoes.
Muriel proffered a gravydish.
I seized the silver ladle to drizzle sauce over my fragrant meal. “Smellsdelicious.”
“It’s Jarod’s favorite,” sheanswered.
That made me level a narrowed look on Jarod who was busy watching his wineglass beingfilled.
Muriel wasn’t staying for his money. At least, notonlyfor his money. Did he truly not see this? Did he really believe everyone had anagenda?
Before I could refuse wine, my glass was filled. As the waiter twisted the bottle with a flick of his wrist, his gaze drifted overme.
“Eyes up, Sylvain,” Jarodbarked.
The boy snapped his gaze to the tapestry, cheeksflaming.
“Get out,” Jarodsaid.
He backed up, almost tripping over the burgundy and forest-green patterned rug, and then scurriedaway.
Jarod clutched his fork. “Fire him,Mimi.”
My lips parted. Was heserious?
Once Muriel and the second waiter had retreated and sealed me in with Mister Moody, I asked, “Because he looked at my hair?Youlooked at my hair, Jarod.Everyonelooks at my hair. It’s really not worth firing someoneover.”
He stabbed his chicken and pushed a bite into his mouth. After swallowing, he said, “Don’t tell me how to run my household,Feather.”
I sat up a little straighter. “Youtouchedmy hair; he didn’t. He didn’t even comment onit.”
Jarod finally raised eyes so black they looked made of onyx. “He wasn’t looking at your hair,” he said before taking another bite. “He was staring at your tits. Then again, they’re spilling out of your clothes, so maybe you wanted him tostare.”
Like the waiter’s, my cheeks blazed. My cleavage was on display but not purposely. I didn’t say anything and neither did Jarod. We ate in a silence so tense I could feel it on my skin, sticky likemolasses.
Once he’d scraped his plate clean, he seized his wineglass. “You should try the wine.” His voice wasn’t loud, yet after the quiet, it felt like he was speaking through a megaphone. “It’s a 1978 ChateauLafitte.”
I lined up my fork and knife on the side of my plate and drank some water. “I told you yesterday, I don’tdrink.”
“This isn’t a drink, Feather. It’s history in a bottle. Liquid gold. Ambrosia of thegods.”
“Ican’t.”
“Tryit.”
“Jarod, Ican’t.”
“Try it, or I’ll spend the next hours in my room while you squander them sitting down herealone.”
“You don’tunderstand.”
“Explain it to me,then!”
“Myfaithforbidsalcohol.”
