Chapter 6 #2
“How… thoughtful,” Mother says, in a tone that suggests it’s anything but.
Daniel leans in, his arm brushing against mine. The scent of his cologne is cloying, almost suffocating. “Oh, so, you’re working with computers too? That must be terribly dull. I can’t imagine staring at a screen all day.”
I feel a hot and sharp flash of annoyance, and before I can think about it, I say, “It’s anything but dull. It’s the future.”
“It’s a job for nerds who don’t like sunshine or getting properly paid.” Daniel laughs. His hand comes up to hold my shoulder. “But it’s a nice hobby, I guess.”
I read between the lines.
A hobby you can keep when I provide for you as your husband.
A lump forms in my throat. It’s so thick I’m worried I’ll choke on it.
“I admire the authenticity of your ignorance,” Grey says flatly, his face a mask of polite interest. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning.
Oh, how I’ve missed Grey’s particular brand of snark.
Daniel blinks, confusion clouding his features as he finally takes his hand off me. “Did he just call me dumb?”
He did.
“Of course not,” Misha interjects, his charm cranked up to eleven. “He’s simply impressed by your… unique perspective.”
God I’ve missed their banter.
A mixture of amusement and longing twists in my chest as my gaze meets Oliver’s, who looks like he has to suppress a laugh.
I missed them.
Fuck.
Amelia looks like a trapped animal between her brother and this Daniel guy, and it’s absolutely killing me. She’s visibly uncomfortable, but still, a twinge of jealousy rushes through me as I watch Daniel lean in close to whisper in her ear.
This Amelia doesn’t look like our Amelia, and I hate it with a burning passion. They’ve turned her into a fucking doll. A beautiful doll, sure, but a sad one, all porcelain and fragile edges.
Although I’ve got to admit, those stilettos that make her even taller than me? Hot as fuck, and that’s putting it mildly.
Amelia’s father launches into a monologue about Grey being the grandson of Professor Donovan, but I tune him out. My stomach growls so loudly I’m surprised the whole room can’t hear it, so I grab a little sandwich.
I’m absolutely famished—haven’t eaten a morsel since well before we left Seattle, too worried about Amelia.
Which is so not like me.
But now that I’m close to her again, that I can see she’s at least somewhat fine, my hunger returns with a vengeance.
It’s funny, really. When we’d called Grandpa earlier, he was shocked.
He remembers Amelia’s father, too, but not for the reasons her old man might hope.
He couldn’t believe such a person could have fathered someone as incredible as Amelia.
But he promised he’d dig out his old notes and give it some more thought.
Amelia’s blue eyes meet mine over the table, and there is something more behind the hurt.
Everything will be all right, Bug.
She just jumped to conclusions—partly right ones, mind you—and got a bit lost. But that’s okay. I lose stuff all the time, and I always find them again.
Now that we’ve found her, we can fix this.
We can make it right.
It’s like debugging a complex piece of code. Sometimes, you have to trace back to the source of the problem before you can solve it. We just need to show her that we watched her out of concern, love, and yeah, maybe a little obsession.
But that’s fine, isn’t it?
Love can be a smidge obsessive sometimes. I just hope she can see that, can understand, even if our methods were a bit… unconventional.
But what isn’t unconventional about us?
These tiny sandwiches are a joke.
Without hesitation, I reach for another, then another, piling my plate high with delicate pastries and finger foods. The spread looks impressive, but it’s all style over substance. I’m half-tempted to ask if they have any proper food hidden away in the kitchen.
“Misha,” Oliver mutters, giving me a look that screams behave yourself.
But I catch Grey’s smirk from the corner of my eye. His expression seems to say, Fuck their posh manners.
I couldn’t agree more.
As I continue to devour the miniature feast before me, I notice Amelia’s mother watching me with narrowed eyes. She’s sizing me up, trying to determine if I’m a threat or an opportunity.
Little does she know, I’m both.
I chew my miniature cucumber sandwich with vigor as I meet her cold, calculating gaze head-on, refusing to be intimidated by her icy demeanor. This would be funny if it wouldn’t affect Ladybug’s well-being.
Her mother is lucky that I’m trying to be nice for Amelia’s sake. I’d love to give her a piece of my mind.
The server hurries over, a look of mild panic on his face as he tries to keep up with my appetite. I flash him a charming grin as he refills the plates, enjoying the slight twitch in Mrs. Stanley’s perfectly manicured eyebrow.
“Thank you, my good man,” I say, clapping his shoulder. “I was beginning to worry I’d waste away to nothing with these dainty portions.”
The dimwit mother’s conversation with the other half of the table cuts through, capturing my attention. “… our vacation home in Scotland is simply divine, especially in autumn,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “The foliage is breathtaking, and the air is so crisp. It’s truly a magical place.”
I realize I’ve tuned out the conversation for so long that I didn’t even notice we changed topics, not that it’s a more interesting one.
Amelia is taking a sip of her tea when Daniel leans in closer, pushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. “It really is beautiful,” he murmurs. “The perfect place for Christmas with the kids.”
Grey growls beside me, but it’s drowned out by Amelia’s yelp. In an instant, all three of us stand and move toward her. She spilled her hot tea over her chest, and her pained expression tells me it burned her. Oliver grabs a napkin and pushes himself between Daniel and Amelia to help her clean up.
“Are you hurt, my Fa-ah… Amelia?” he corrects himself, keeping his tone soft, at odds with the deep concern etched on his face.
Amelia looks up at him with big eyes, her bottom lip quivering.
“Amelia Charlotte, how clumsy can you be?” her mother accuses.
God, I hate this woman.
Amelia pushes back her chair and stands, muttering an excuse to freshen up. She hurries away, leaving behind a worried-looking Oliver.
I glance at Grey who nods, and we’re just about to run after her, when Mr. Stanley’s voice halts us. “Sit down, gentlemen. She’ll come back.”
“She burned herself,” Oliver accuses, ignoring Mr. Stanley and walking off.
Grey mutters an apology and follows, and I look back at the table.
“Thanks for the miniature food,” I say with a smile, my words dripping with sarcasm before walking after them.
Amelia deserves so much more than this charade, and when we’re back in Seattle, I’m buying her a foot-long sandwich.