“I wasn’t dismissing you,” she said quickly, her voice rising slightly. “I was complimenting you. I think it’s wonderful that you?—”
“That I what?” Layla interrupted. “That I can cookandthink at the same time?”
“Layla,” I said quietly.
She looked at me.
Held my gaze for a long moment.
Then turned and walked back into the kitchen without another word.
Alexis sat there, her hands folded in her lap, her expression a mixture of shock and embarrassment.
“I didn’t mean to offend her,” she said softly. “I was just trying to be nice.”
Syx laughed.
Loud.
“Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “You wasn’t being nice. You was being shady as fuck.”
Alexis turned to him, her eyes wide.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” Syx said, leaning back in his chair. “You been throwing little digs at Layla since you sat down. Acting all innocent like you don’t know what you doing.”
“I have not?—”
“You called her the help,” Syx said, his grin widening. “Then you acted all surprised she got a brain. Now you tryna play it off like you was just being polite.”
“Syx,” I said, my voice low and sharp. “Shut the fuck up.”
He looked at me.
Grinned wider.
“My bad, cuz,” he said. “I’m just saying what everybody else thinking.”
I didn’t respond.
Just turned my attention back to my plate and started eating.
The rest of the dinner was tense.
Alexis tried to steer the conversation back to safer topics—art, music, the gallery opening.
Syx kept making comments under his breath that I ignored.
Layla came and went, refilling glasses and clearing plates, her face a mask of professional detachment. I don’t think shetrusted herself to sit down at the table with Alexis without beating her ass.
By the time dessert arrived—bread pudding with whiskey sauce—I was ready for this night to be over. Couldn’t even enjoy my favorite dessert.
The maids came in to clear the rest of the table.
Alexis stood, smoothing her dress over her hips, and turned to me with a smile.
“That was wonderful,” she said. “Thank you for having me.”
