“Lord, make it stop,” I whisper to the ceiling as Raif slides an arm around me, pulling me into his side.
“I’m sure you can finishshowingme around the house another time.”
I make a face. Did they just create a new euphemism?
“I’ll flick the bean,” says Raif.
“Whoa—what?” I rear back, holding up my hand like a stop sign because, please, Lord, make it stop. I know we’re a pretty open family, but he did not just say that in front of my mother.Did he?
“Thank you, Raif. That would be lovely,” Polly says without batting an eyelid. Not that I’d rely on her reaction. My mother is a quirky bird. “They’re in the warming drawer under the oven.”
“Oh, thank God.” Beans,plural. I’llfetchthebeans,not…
“Do you have something against vegetables?” Raif asks, mildly perplexed.
In answer, I just wave him in the direction of the door.
“What a gentleman,” my mother says as his shoes echo along the hallway. But it didn’t sound like a compliment. More like a complaint.
“Yep, that’s my Raify bear,” I trill happily. “He’s a real prince.” And before she can make me the subject of her grilling, I trot off after him.
“For fuck’s sake, smile.”
Despite his words, Raif stares lovingly down at me, his soft expression barely flickering.
“You must’ve missed the training course. How to win friends and influence people?” I add.
“I don’t need friends, and I choose to influence people by ways other than niceties.”
“Story checks out,” I mutter. “But I’m not sure if you know women, on the whole, aren’t all that keen on being told to cheer up.”
Why is he even surprised I’m not smiling? First, I had to put up with Primrose’s attitude, and then my mother mentioned sex—in an actual conversation! I’m very slightly hung over and twisted up over the dry-humping session I initiated just a few hours ago. I know it happened in the dark and in another country, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking about it. But I survived. And I haven’t booked my ticket to Peru. Yet.
“I’m not sure every woman has to be asked to smile.”
I snort. Really attractive, right? “You’ve got to be joking?Cheer up, love—it might never ’appen, the patriarchy yell from the bellies of their work vans.” Grabbing my napkin, I give it the kind of shake a Parisienne fine dining server would be envious of.In other words, violently.Though the addition of a cockney accent might’ve been a bit much.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m beginning to wonder if you know anyactualwomen. Because telling a woman to cheer up often has the opposite effect.”
He turns in his seat to rest his arm across the back of my chair, effectively shielding me from the view of the doorway. “I didn’t tell you to cheer up, mainly because I think you’re already happy. Happy torturing me,” he adds a little menacingly.
Oh, I am so fucked. That made me want to squee!
“And, pray tell, how did you come to that conclusion?”
“You enjoy antagonizing your sister,” he murmurs, tracing a finger along my jawline. “Though, maybe not quite as much as you enjoy antagonizing me.”
“That’s just a normal Sunday,” I answer, ignoring the second part of his assessment.
“Lavender.” His huskily addressed threat feels like that brush of velvet-covered steel again.
Ohh, more. I like it.
“Yes, my darling husban—” I squeak as his fingers clamp around my thigh.
“Lovely Lavender. You are going to pay for this.”
