“Right. It’s Beatrice.” Irina mouthed “help me” to him, but at this point even his ability to be cute probably wouldn’t save her.
“You know, we had a goat once named Beatrice.” Mom was all grins. “I loved her. We used to milk her every morning before we sold her to the neighbor guy because he decided to start making soap. That’s when I took up painting.”
Funny, to Irina that all made perfect sense. To everyone else? Probably not.
Irina did wish her mom hadn’t mentioned the milking, but at least she didn’t go on about her theory of world anger wrecking butterfly ecosystems.
Knox’s mom frowned. “I don’t know what that has to do with anything.”
“Goat milk soap?” Mom made a rubbing motion on the back of her hands. “It’s wonderful. Beatrice’s milk made great soap. Have you ever made soap?”
“No.” Beatrice gave Knox the same kind of look Irina had just given him. The “help me” one.
“Well, you haven’t lived until you’ve had real goat milk soap.” Mom smiled, but it seemed a bit forced.
“There’s food?” Beatrice—why couldn’t she say her freaking name correctly?—eyed the table of drunken appetizers.
“Yeah.” Knox had shoved his hands in his pockets again. He did that a lot lately. “You should help yourself. Eat up. Eat lots.”
Beatrice—see, she could remember it when she didn’t have to say it—headed for the food table.
“Knox?” Courtney hurried through the guests. “Did you do this?” She held up her phone.
There on one of the biggest tabloid sites was a picture of Knox on the plane holding the baby. The headline made it clear he handled the delivery. As in, full-on handled it. With his hands.
Knox took the phone, flipping through the images.
“These are the photos you took,” Knox said to Irina, seemingly unbelieving.
Wasn’t that just a vote of confidence?
He looked to Courtney. “Did you send these?”
His tone was full icicle and not the kind with booze mixed in for fun.
She didn’t appreciate that tone. Holding up her hands, she shook her head. “You know I think it’s great for your image, but you told me to leave it alone. I did.”
He glanced to Irina. “Was it you?”
Seriously? She resented the question.
“I didn’t sell you out, if that’s what you’re asking.” She crossed her arms because she didn’t like the feeling of being exposed. Or the feeling that came with Knox’s sort-of accusation.
“I get it.” He handed the phone back to Courtney.
“What do you get?” Irina asked.
“I get that you wanted me to be the hero. Congratulations, I’m the hero. The photos are out, now we don’t have to do this.” His lips thinned as he spoke.
Hers probably did too, right along with her blood, and the little space between her eyebrows.
“This?” she asked, since he should probably clarify
“The wedding.” He stuck his hands on his hips.
“You think I don’t want to do the wedding?” she asked, because everything she’d done over the past months had been todothe wedding.
“This is just like your mom and I’s wedding,” Knox’s dad said from the doorway to the kitchen, cheerful as though this was a good thing. “Right, Beatrice?”
