“You could show up in a potato sack and still be the most interesting person in the room.”
I ignore the warmth that spreads through me at his words. “That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
“The point is…” I trail off. What is the point? That I don’t want to go? That I’m scared of meeting his family? That I’m terrified of being pulled deeper into his world?
All true. But none of it feels like reason enough to refuse.
“Fine,” I hear myself say. “I’ll go. But I meant what I said about having nothing to wear.”
“Leave that to me.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll take care of it.” He sets down his glass. “My sisters will come by tomorrow with options.”
“Your sisters are going to dress me?”
“They’re going to help you find something appropriate. Anya and Kristina have impeccable taste.” A glint appears in his eyes. “They’ve also been dying to meet you. Think of it as a bonding experience.”
“I don’t want to bond with your sisters.”
“Too bad. They want to bond with you.” He picks up his glass again. “Fair warning: they’ve been asking about you since I told them about the marriage. Prepare for an interrogation.”
“Wonderful. Anything else I should know?”
“They can be a bit… enthusiastic.”
“Enthusiastic how?”
He just smiles. “You’ll see. They’re harmless. Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
Another smile. He takes a sip of his drink and doesn’t elaborate.
“This is going to be a disaster,” I mutter.
“It’s going to be fine. You’ll pick out a dress, make small talk, and charm everyone without even trying.”
“You have a lot of faith in someone who’s made it very clear she hates you.”
“You don’t hate me.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No.” He sets down the glass and closes some of the distance between us. “You hate what I did. You hate this situation. But you don’t hate me. If you did, you wouldn’t have spent half the day sneaking glances when you thought I wasn’t looking.”
My face burns. “I wasn’t—”
“You were.” His voice drops. “It’s all right. I’ve been doing the same thing.”
I don’t know what to say. Don’t know what to do with the flutter in my chest or the way my pulse quickens.
“I’m going to my room,” I manage.
“Kirsten.”
