Maria looks physically ill. Sophia tries, and fails, to hide her giggle.
Later, I sip my coffee and think about Caspian Stone. Which is next level ridiculous. Caspian is not a thought you can casually have. He’s a thought that knocks over your coffee and spills it everywhere.
What if—
No. Absolutely not.
(What if Caspian was in Mom’s book?)
The idea is preposterous. It is as impossible as a teacup trying to catch a waterfall.
A date with him would be a disaster. My mother’s book is for nice men with sensible sweaters and harmless questions.
Caspian is the question no one dares to ask.
I imagine our date against my will, resenting the small shiver running down my spine. He would be sitting across from me in one of those stupid polos, all broad shoulders and terrifying calm. He would watch me like I was someone interesting instead of a history nerd who alphabetizes his books when stressed. He would—
No. He would not.
He’s Ryan’s friend.
Welcoming the intrusion, I let it snap against my traitorous mind with the sharp sting of a rubber band. I set my cup down harder than necessary. Sophia’s upcoming residency has ruined my dinner and my peace of mind.
I square my shoulders. Marcus Aurelius was an emperor who dealt with war, plague, riots, and fourteen children. He basically invented mindpower. I’m going to follow in his footsteps and wield the power of my mind like a sword.
In less dramatic words: I refuse to think about Caspian.
He will never be a prospect.
He will always be a problem.
CHAPTER 5 – CASPIAN
The gravel crunches under my shoes as I walk up the path to my family home.
At the door, I pause with my hand hovering over the cold brass handle.
The idea of opening the door repulses me.
I startle when the door yanks open and my sister appears.
“Are you waiting for a written invitation?” Penelope asks, sharp and immaculate in her linen dress.
A decade older than me, my sister moved away when I was nine.
I grew up idolizing her, yet she never seemed to remember my existence.
“Nice to see you too, Penelope,” I say, but she’s already turning away.
“Daniel, don’t hover,” she snaps at her husband. “You’re blocking the doorway.”
Daniel smiles apologetically and moves aside. He’s the Regional Big Headof Global Pretentious Bullshit—or something to that effect.
I take a deep breath and step inside. One hour. Two max. I’ll manage.
Mother inspects a flower arrangement in the hall, her lips pursed.
I go kiss her cheek.
