With an incoherent string of muttered complaints, a hand shoots out from under the covers, slapping a crumpled envelope onto my face.
“So aggressive...” I chuckle, tearing it open.
I bet I could lift her mood in three minutes if I got my head between her thighs. Not the best visual considering my morning hard-on is fuckingraging.
Back to my initial train of thought... another thing I didn’t expect when I agreed to help Addie was a week of activities. Participation mandatory. I skim the invitation to the task-filled adventure, then read it aloud.
“They’re so lame,” Addie mutters, tugging the sheets until her face pops out. “Is there at least a prize?”
I check the back of the card. “For today’s task it’s a whatever-you-desire dinner on the top deck tonight.”
“Lame,” she repeats, scrunching her nose.
“There’s more. Whoever wins can keep the same partner for the next task. Everyone else gets shuffled into new teams.”
She sits up, looking marginally more awake. “Ugh, fine. We better get moving.”
“Afraid to lose me?”
“Would you like to be paired with my mother?”
“Fair point.” I get to my feet, ignoring Addie staring at the scar marking my chest.
At least she’s not eyeing the bulge in my pants.
Not that I’d mind.
“Grab a shower and tame that.” I motion to her hair. “You look like you got struck by lightning.”
She rolls her eyes but smothers her hair into something less horror-movie looking before stumbling into the bathroom.
Within forty minutes, we’re on the main deck where people are enjoying breakfast in the morning sun. The seating arrangement has changed from last night. We’ve been moved up from halfway down the table to sit next to Addie’s father.
Over the next half an hour, during which two cups of black coffee wake me up and sharpen my focus on the conversation, all twenty-two people at the table—including three children—polish the food off their plates, while listening to the minute details of Amara’s wedding plan, even though she was only asked if they’d set the date.
Detailed, and by the sound of it, ridiculously expensive: Seychelles, three hundred guests, a performance by her favorite singer, and so on and so forth.
“Full?” I ask Addie, pointing at her untouched slice of pie.
From the corner of my eye, I catch her mother’s head whip toward me, eyebrows theatrically raised.
“The pie is topped with cashews. Audrey’s allergic to most nuts,” she denotes loud enough to draw everyone’s attention. “How long have you been...” She wrinkles her nose, looking between us, “...datingthat you don’t know such a basic thing?”
Looks like someone started their day on the wrong side of the bed. Don’t ask why, but her hostility seems hilarious.
Truth be told, I was a little disappointed with her smiles last night. I hoped she’d give me shit at some point during this trip. People like Victoria—narcissists—despise when things don’t go their way, so my strategy for tackling her rude ass is bound to drive her nuts. Pun, obviously, intended.
“I can’t say I noticed Addie having any aversion to nuts,” I say, my tone casual, but I add a small emphasis onnuts forgood measure. Addie’s kick under the table and Victoria’s eyes bulging from their sockets let me know the innuendo hit the mark. Playing coy, I add, “She had a walnut latte on our flight yesterday.”
“I’m only allergic to cashews and pistachios,” Addie says, sounding more defensive than I did. “They’re hardly a popular ingredient, Mom.”
Victoria narrows her eyes, cheeks reddening as I’d hoped.
Mother dearest: 0.
Colt: 1.
“You purposely haven’t answered my question. How long have you been seeing my daughter?”
