‘I know.’ Roman’s face softens, and I can’t decide if it’s from pity or something more delicious.
My heart skips as his tongue darts over his lower lip, and I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from his.
‘You should probably get cleaned up,’ he says, bursting the bubble of whateverthatwas between us.
‘Yeah. Probably.’
The kitchen hasn’t changed.
It doesn’t smell of food, exactly. The industrial kitchen is used more often by the chefs. The pretty family kitchen smells like lemon polish and copper pans. The ones that hang like a glittering bunting above the central island. The ones that I’ve never seen used in my whole life. Despite it being my childhood home, I’ve never found the kitchen to behomely. It’s like being in a show home. Built for style, not substance.
The chef moves around me without acknowledging me, which is fine. Preferable, perhaps. He looks as uncomfortable as I do in the space.
Priscilla is by the drinks trolley, back to me, stirring Dad’s whisky. Which is odd, because who stirs whisky? I move to the side to try to see past her slim form.
She has something in her hand, and I catch just a flicker of shine against her skin. What’s she doing?
It’s a small, clear vial. And in a flash, it’s gone, tucked into her cleavage.
I’m tempted to walk over and snatch it from between her far too neatly formed breasts, or go in all accusation and little thought. But accosting my almost-stepmother probably isn’t the wisest plan.
‘What was that?’ I ask.
Priscilla turns with her brows lifting slightly, a placid expression on her face, as if I’ve asked her to repeat a recipe. ‘Sorry?’
‘What did you put in Dad’s whisky?’
Her gaze flicks to the glass, then back to me. ‘Oh. Nothing.’
I hate her tone. The way she and Dad always talk to me like I’m a child. I’m nearly bloody thirty.
‘What is it?’ I demand.
‘A supplement for his blood pressure. He forgets to take his tablets, and I don’t want to nag him in front of the staff. Stop your fretting, love.’
I want to accept her explanation, but it still doesn’t sit right with me.
‘I didn’t know he was taking anything.’ I press at her, watching her face for any signs of distress.
‘It’s new. His doctor recommended it. You don’t need to worry.’ She picks up the drink and gives me a look that I think is supposed to be reassuring. I do not feel reassured. ‘You always get a bit het up when you’re home. Maybe you should take a walk.’
I glance at Dad, laughing with Fraser through the doorway in the next room. Relaxed and completely unaware.
‘You could have told him,’ I say.
‘He knows,’ she replies smoothly. ‘There’s no need to make a thing of it.’
The subject is closed. Priscilla turns back to the trolley and picks up the drink before heading through to where my dad sits.
Heat creeps up my neck as I watch her. Things never change around here. Even this newer addition to the family expects me to just listen and obey. It’s one of the many reasons I left for London, craving a space where I didn’t feel like a child in an adult’s body. Somewhere where I have free will.
Maybe it is nothing,I tell myself.Maybe you’re inventing threats because this house drives you mad.
I head into the room and perch on the arm of my dad’s chair, where he smiles up at me.
When Dad reaches for the glass, I move to touch Roman’s hand as a way to cross into Dad’s space.
I clip his elbow with mine, and the glass tips. Amber liquid spills across Dad’s lap before splashing onto the floor.
