“I’m just asking. You’re the decor expert.”
“Hey, Margot,” she called over to her aunt. “Is Jacob joining us?”
“No,chère. He’s away.”
Danica smiled at me. “Sorry.”
“It’s alright,” I said. “I’ll manage. And by the way, is that afakeFrench accent?”
Danica sipped her drink to hide her grin. “Don’t ask.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
I was starting to get the picture. Danica’s family was a little eccentric.
But how bad could it be, spending my Saturday morning with a bunch of good-looking women, with a whiskey in my hand?
By the time we all headed into the giant dining room to eat, I was on my second drink, had had an entertaining conversation with cousin Charlotte about boy bands—she was seriously into them, I was kinda neutral on the subject—and I was feeling a little more relaxed.
But as we settled in, I felt conspicuous all over again. The way I was dressed. The fact that I was the only one here with a dick. The fact that there were four different forks next to my plate and I really didn’t know, or care, what any of them was for.
The catering staff laid out some kind of eggs Benedict thing on my plate that looked and smelled amazing, and whatever would get it into my mouth the fastest worked for me.
I picked up the biggest fork.
“What interesting tattoos,” someone said. I glanced to my right, where the aunt who’d answered the door sat. The uptight one.
She managed to keep a straight face as she studied the F-word wrapped around my bicep, which was right in her face. Miraculously, I’d found a shirt in my closet without any swear words or dicks on it, but myFuck Bitches / Get Moneytattoos were on full display.
“Thanks.”
“Do they all have personal meaning?” she asked me.
“Yes.”
“Tattoos always have personal meaning,” Danica’s mom said. She was sitting across the table and smiled at me. “I have a crow on my hip that I—”
“Mom, no one wants to hear about your spirit animal,” Daniella interjected.
“I’m getting a Pegasus on my back,” cousin Charlotte said. “That’s my spirit animal.”
“You’re not getting a Pegasus,” one of the aunts said. I assumed it was Charlotte’s mom.
“You don’t want a tattoo on your back,” said the uptight one. “You’ll regret it.”
“What’s wrong with tattoos?” cousin Jolie put in.
“You should get one,” Charlotte told her. “I would, if I was your age and my mom wouldn’t flip.”
“You’re not getting a tattoo,” the uptight one informed Jolie.
“There’s nothing wrong with tattoos,” Danica’s mom said, smiling at me again.
“These are Aunt Mireille’s English muffins,” Danica said on my left side. She tapped my plate with her fork, directing my attention away from the great tattoo debate that had now broken out among her cousins and their mothers. “You really haven’t had eggs Bennys until you’ve had them with Mireille’s English muffins.”
“I’m trying out some new recipes today,” Mireille informed us all. Tall one; the baker. She stood up and clinked a spoon to her wine glass to shut everyone up. “So eat, eat. I want honest opinions when we get to dessert.” She looked at everyone sharply, then sat back down—and the argument erupted again.
“Sorry,” Danica said quietly, leaning in to me. “I’d hoped they’d be on their best behavior, but sadly, this is it.”
