“One who colors outside of the lines.” He doesn’t seem to appreciate hearing something he’s already admitted himself. “Isthat a yes?” I ask sweetly as I bring my pinky finger to my lips. I bite the tip and watch Raif’s gaze darken.
Boys are so easy.But then I remember I’m not playing in the little leagues now.
“Is your brother a criminal?”
“Who, Whit? I suppose he’s criminally rich.”
“Then he’s colored outside of the lines, too.”
“Now Iknowyou’ve never met him. But you do know Brin,” I assert, narrowing my gaze.
“We’ve met,” he admits.
“And that’s why he’s out there bending Mum’s ear.” I incline my head in the direction of the kitchen. “Saying what?”
“I really have no idea.”
I pull a doubtful face as I sit up. I’m definitely missing something here.
“I will say that on the day we met, I got the impression that your brother didn’t like me.”
I shrug. I don’t like my brother sometimes. Love? Yes. Like? That depends if his mouth is moving. “You must know why.”
He shrugs, unconcerned, and leans back in his chair. Such broad shoulders my pretend husband has. Real husband, he’d probably insist on. But no matter what he says, our marriage is make-believe.
“I barely know him.”
I lift my gaze. “That was a lie.” I don’t know how I know but I do, but I can’t frown any deeper. Not unless I want my eyebrows to become a mustache.
“Maybe you should ask him.”
“Maybe I will.”
Raif’s expression doesn’t even flicker.
I reach for the water carafe—Sunday lunch at Polly’s house is super bougie—and pour a little into each of our water glasses.
“Please try to relax. You look like you’re waiting for the guillotine.”
I chuckle darkly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know you’re not behaving like a woman in love, and I’d really like you to.”
“Because if we can’t convince my family, who can we convince?” I ask as my eyebrows bounce to the top of my head. “You’ve got that the wrong way around.” I reach for my glass and bring it to my lips. “Other people will be easier to convince. I can pretend to be normal around them.”
“Normal,” he mutters, giving his head a tiny shake. “Who the hell is normal?”
“You know—other people.” I give an exaggerated sigh, then resume my deep scowl.
“Knock it off,” he says through gritted teeth.
Footsteps sound in the hallway as, like a total looney, Raif chuckles loudly for no reason.
“You all right?” I ask as the footsteps pass, sending him a look that I hope says “I think you’re seriously losing it.” He isn’t. I’m also not dense. I know he’s trying to mold us into smitten kittens in the eyes of my family. But what he fails to understand is if I start smiling and twirling around, all Julie Andrews, said family will likely call in a priest for an exorcism.
I’m morethe hills have eyesthanthe hills are alive.
It’s a quiet Sunday lunch, as far as these events go, thanks to Whit, Mimi, Heather, Archer, and the offspring’s non-attendance. But the food is good, as it usually is. Lamb smothered in thyme and garlic, yummy roast potatoes, an heirloom tomato salad, chard in lemon, a yummy rice dish all fluffy and flavorsome, andbriam, a traditional Greek roasted vegetable dish.Polly does love a theme.
