I grit my teeth, reining in my irritation at her meddling. Especially since she knows perfectly well how I feel about being set up on a blind date with her dance instructor.
“Two palomas,” she tells the bartender, who proceeds to toss a shaker over his head and catch it without glancing over his shoulder.
Fiona claps like a child at the circus, scattering my romantic woes and loosening my jaw into a smirk.
“I thought your passion was reserved for word puzzles and dancing, Fi. But now I find out bartending does it for you too.”
She leans over to murmur in her thick Irish brogue, “It’s not the bartending; it’s the bartender. Compel him to take me home, will ya?”
I can’t stop my nose from crinkling. “He could be your son.”
“But he isn’t.”
“I’m not compelling him to take you home and do the dirty with you.”
“Fine. I’ll ask Lisa.”
“Good luck with that.” I lift my gaze to the crowded room in search of Fiona’s best friend and daughter in all but name.
I find her chatting with Calanthe while Diego, my brother’s husband, surveys the room. The Bloom women might have gotten runes over a year ago, yet Calanthe’s worrywart fiancé refuses to let them breathe without security.
When Diego senses my stare, he cants his head. I give him an overly enthusiastic thumbs-up, which kicks up the corners of his mouth. He tosses me a wink before going back to surveying the room.
“Make my little friend’s drink extra-strong,” Fiona is instructing the bartender. “She needs loosening.”
“Who’s your little friend?” I fold my arms, the cold stone countertop biting into my exposed ribs.
Fiona pats my cheek. “You, Elle.”
I cock an eyebrow because I’m five-ten without heels. Not that I ever wear any. I’m a boots-and-sneakers girl, unlike Calanthe, whose obsession with heels is only surpassed by her obsession with her future husband.
“I don’t need loosening,” I grumble.
“Sweetheart, you’re as stiff as a church pew.” Fiona strokes the egg-sized pink diamond pendant that echoes her silver-pink dye job.
“When’s the last time you went to pay Jesus your respects?”
Fiona huffs out a tickled snort.
“Remind me of the dates of your return trip to the Loch Ness?” I ask.
“The Loch Ness is in Scotland. My manor’s in Ireland. As to when I’m going back, not anytime soon. Lisa needs help runnin’ the shop.”
Lisa doesn’t need any help with the shop—not now that Tarian restored her mind. But she gives her former neighbor and now-permanent houseguest the illusion of being overwhelmed to keep Fiona’s loneliness at bay.
We all do.
Even though Fiona can bea lot, she’s loyal to a fault.
Calanthe’s strapless floral gown whooshes around her platform stilettos as she clip-clops our way. “Where’s your hot date?”
“I don’t have a date,” I grumble. When Calanthe and Fiona exchange a knowing look, my molars click. “That ballerina isn’t my date.”
Calanthe snorts, her hazel eyes glittering like the diamond body chain she wears underallher clothing. It’s Tarian’s thing. A thing I would’ve preferred not knowing about.
“Cillian teaches Zumba, not ballet,” Calanthe points out.
“Same difference,” I mutter.
