Coincidence, or something more? She’s always claimed to have a touch of the sight. A sixth sense. She says the women in her family line can feel storms coming. Births. Deaths. Betrayals.
“Any woman making you restless these days?” Mamère asks.
Every head turns in my direction, all eyes on me.
My mother pauses mid-step while clearing the table, a dish in her hand, gaze flicking to me.
Matt lowers his phone, attention shifting from the screen to my face, brows raised.
Juliette freezes mid-text, her thumbs hovering above the screen, unwilling to miss a single word.
My father stops flipping channels, the remote resting still in his hand, eyes on me now.
Mamère has never asked me that before. So why now when thereactually is someone? When Laurette is under my skin like a splinter I don’t want pulled out.
I should lie. Deflect. Crack a joke. Anything to redirect the spotlight.
But I don’t. Mamère would know better.
And maybe… maybe I want to talk about Laurette.
“I’ve met someone.”
Juliette leans in with a grin. “Oh, do tell, dear brother. If you’re going to make my love life your business, I should return the favor.”
“You don’t have a love life,” I deadpan.
She rolls her eyes. “And you do?”
No, not love. It’s more like a hunger that waits, watches, and coils tightly beneath the surface.
“She’s a lawyer.” I start there because that part feels safe and respectable. Normal.
“And not just any lawyer,” I add. “This woman is sharp as a blade with the law. She doesn’t just study justice. She chases it. Stalks it.”
I look down, fighting a smile. “And she’s beautiful in a way that makes you stare too long and hate yourself for it.”
That earns a few lifted brows and a slow blink from Matt, even though he already knows about her. Even my father lifts his brows with interest.
Ah, fuck. I guess that was a little too poetic.
My mother smiles. “What’s her name?”
“Laurette.”
She nods, approving. “Beautiful name.”
Mamère’s eyes soften, but her tone is razor-edged. “And does the girl know she’s got you twisted up?”
I smirk, eyes dropping to my wine glass. “Not exactly.”
“Don’t worry. She will,” Mamère says.
Juliette grins, kicking her feet up on the ottoman. “I hope she twists you up good. Tell us more.”
I shake my head. “That’s all you’re getting about her.”
They groan, laugh, and push for more, but my lips are sealed.
