The Gamble

15. Lavender

My plansfor the regular weekend include Saturday in the gallery, then maybe drinks after work. Sunday morning I often spend in bed, wrapped in my duvet and catching up on Fifty Day Fiancé and MAFS. Primrose likes to thumb her nose at my shows. She calls it car-crash TV. And I suppose she’s right because it’s near impossible to tear my attention away until they’re finished.

Sunday afternoon might be lunch at Polly’s or maybe a stroll to the local pub with Tod for a little hair of the dog. Not that I drink to excess these days, but if you can’t demand “prosecco me” on Sunday, then what the heck is the weekend for?

Those were the plans I’d been looking forward to. Instead, I get to spend my Sunday lying to my family for reasons I’ve yet to fully fathom. It’s surely not all about the monetary gain from my prenup promise of persuasion. Which leaves, what?

Sexual voodoo?

One thing is for sure, Raif Deveraux has a literal fuck-ton of that stuff.

I can’t believe I almost used his hot body to get myself off last night. At least until—

My stomach cramps as I cut off that thought.

I’ve had more pleasant Sundays than this, and I include the one I spent sleeping off a potential drunk-and-disorderly charge in a cell at the Chelsea Police Station. Which is another thought that doesn’t warrant examination.

It’s not like the two aren’t linked.

Argh! Brain, get with the program.

“And this is the good parlor,” I mutter, pushing the door open. I gesture Raif ahead.

Kill me now. He’s getting the grand tour of my childhood home, whether he wants it or not.

“Just the downstairs,” Polly had whispered, pushing me out of the kitchen. She obviously didn’t want to put us both in proximity to a bed. Heavens, the temptation!

But I’m sure Mum only insisted on me showing him around to give her a few moments to calm Brin down. He did not look happy. He was looking at me as though my name were Lydia and his was Lizzie. I don’t think he’s upset that I beat him to the matrimonial finish line and more something about who I’ve married.

Maybe Raif is some Wickham-esque fuckboi.

But these are more thoughts I slot away. I’ll interrogate my brother later.

“Very pretty,” Raif says, sauntering into the room.

I pull a face, not that he can see as he walks to the end where French doors lead out into the sun-drenched garden.

“Is that a tree house?” He glances over his shoulder.

I nod like the world’s worst real estate agent.

Dear God, I hope there’s some wine left when I get back to the kitchen. I could do with a glass or five. I love this place, but I feel ridiculous showing Raif around. His Chelsea house was five times larger and on its own grounds! And don’t get me started on the place in Gibraltar.

If Mum had any idea, she’d likely be throwing whatever’s left of the champagne down her neck.

It’s what I’d be doing if I had to listen to Brin.

But I do feel really rotten springing my “good news” on her as I did.

“Yeah.” I clear my throat, suddenly realizing he’s watching me. “We used to fight over it as kids.” I move closer to the window, coming to stand next to him. In the window, there’s such disparity in our reflections. Raif is tall, broad, and stylishly pulled together while I look like a Victorian chimney sweep. “But now, the grandkids fight over it.”

“I can imagine. It looks like fun.”

“Yeah, it was.” Pulling my sleeves over my fingers, I link my hands at my front.

“I bet it still could be,” he adds. “Why don’t you show me where you used to play as a little girl?”

For a minute, I think he’s being serious. I suppose you might say I’m a bit charmed by his interest, but when I turn my head, I see that all too familiar expression.

Part provocation, part vexation. All sexual alchemy.

“You could sit in the open doorway. It looks like it would be just the right height for you to wrap your thighs around my head.”

“No, it’s higher than that,” I counter.

“Then I’ll climb. Stand on a rung.”

“And I’ll stomp on your fingers and make you fall off. I did that to Daniel once.” I move my gaze back to the garden. “Broke his arm.” He got me back. I’ve still got the scars to prove it.

“You broke your brother’s arm? That’s…”

“Brutal? It’s how we were. Still are, really.” It’s weird how I would brawl with my brothers, giving as good as I got, but the one time I needed to be fierce, I froze.

“Are you cold?”

I tuck my chin to the neck of my T-shirt and give my head a shake. I hate feeling like this. Why are these memories resurfacing today?

“Lavender?”

“You didn’t fight with your sister?” I ask, pushing away his concern.

“No.”

“Talk about a dead end.” The words are no sooner out when I physically cringe. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s fine. We didn’t grow up together.”

“That’s sad. Sometimes I can’t stand my siblings, but I can’t imagine a world without them. Who would I have to annoy? Well, there’s you now, I suppose.” I force my lips into some semblance of a smile. “Maybe the change of audience will be nice.”

“Don’t even think about it.”

“I hope you’ve got a will. I wouldn’t like to think I’d annoy you into your grave.”

His lips twist with a black sort of humor.

“Come to think of it, I always said the only man I’d ever marry would be a rich one with at least one foot already in the grave.” I turn my head and allow my eyes to slide down his body. “I mean, a fall for a man your age could be fatal.”

“I’m sure you could think of more fun ways to kill me off.” His arm slides behind me, his hand molding to the curve of my hip. And I feel the effect everywhere.

“Yeah. I suppose I could tell my brothers about the deal we’ve made.”

“You could, but then you won’t get to experience our wedding night.”

I slide him a superior look. At least, that’s what I’m aiming for, even as my stomach pleasurably flips.

“I know I’m looking forward to it.”

I fight a shiver at his low purr.

“But then again,” he adds with a deep inhale. “You might not need to tell them because they might easily guess.”

“Unlikely,” I say, turning to watch a finch hop around from branch to branch on Polly’s beloved apple tree. It’s that or stare at his lips a bit longer. Why do they have to be so lovely? Chiseled and full and far too inviting. Urgh. A mouth like that on a man is such a waste. It makes me want to get fillers.

“I don’t think so.”

“Whit’s not going to be at lunch,” I retort, “and neither is Dan. The other two have their heads stuck far too up their own bums to notice anything that’s going on in my life. Especially Brin. The man is a legend in his own mind.”

I find Raif’s forefinger at my chin. I allow him to turn my head.

“If you don’t stop… whatever this is,” he murmurs as his eyes roam over my face. “They will guess something isn’t right.”

“Oh, contraire,” I answer, equally as soft. “If I stop frowning and start smiling, they’ll know something is up. It might be hard for you to comprehend, but this,” I say, cocking a brow, “is my least pissed-off face.”

“Also not true. I’ve seen your expression in much happier states. I’ve seen your eyes sparkle with pleasure until they resemble sapphires and watched you smile a smile so wide that it took up half of your face.”

“Are you saying I have a big mouth?” A big mouth with thin lips.

“Your mouth is perfect.”

“Shows what—” I inhale a tiny breath when his lips brush mine, petal soft.

“Perfect and far too tempting.” He traces the shape of my mouth with his, brushing, coaxing. My resolve loosens. Like an unstuck jam jar lid. “I know you’re capable of so much more,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the corner of my mouth. “Because I’ve witnessed the divine in your expression.” Then the other. “Heard the angels whisper in your sighs.”

“I’m not even a little angelic.” I close my eyes. Maybe this mouth isn’t completely wasted on him. I allow the sensations he pulls from me to ripple across my skin and through me. We’re barely touching—we’re not even facing each other. Somehow, that doesn’t seem to matter.

It just makes the moment seem more erotic.

“I don’t need you to be an angel. But I do need you to look happy.”

God, he’s good at this.

“Like you’ve found the love of your life.”

“Yeah?”

“An unreasonably sexy, absurdly wealthy man who you can’t get enough of.”

“Yes.” Or maybe no. “Where is this hot hunk of rich loving?”

His soft chuckle is a brush against my lips. I begin to smile, then inhale a sharp breath as I find my back thrust against the glass. His fingers link mine, and he lifts my hands, pressing them above my head. The glass is cool, but heat pools in my center when he pins me there with his hips.

“Don’t you know you’re married to one of London’s hottest bachelors?”

God, neck kisses. I twist my head, offering more of my skin. “So says you?” My answer is a little more warbly than I’d like.

His dark eyes shine as he lifts his head slightly, the expression he wears bearing a touch of sheepishness. “According to some article in the London Gazette.”

“Was that the edition just before or after the Berlin Wall fell?”

He chuckles as he lowers his head. “Of course you’re not impressed.”

I swallow back a moan at the threat of his teeth. Bugger it. I’ll wear a scarf to work.

“I expect that was your heyday back then. When pedal pushers and rah-rah skirts were in fashion.”

“Hilarious.” His answer hisses across my skin.

“I watch the HISTORY Channel. It’s very educational.”

“This is a very fine line you’re prancing along, princess. Ruin this, and I ruin you.”

“Try not to make it sound as though you’re looking forward to that.” I slide my fingers from his hold and rake them through his dark hair. His hands move to my waist. Probably for self-preservation. But then his eyes darken, and I swear his lids look a little heavier.

I’ve tamed the tiger and found his tickle spot—the one that makes all his instincts turn off—as he rests his head against mine, and his shoulders relax.

I close my eyes, torn. This feels dangerous. Riskier than the way he dangles his multi-million-pound carrots and more perilous even than the way he seems to know my body.

“So this line I’m dancing along.” One hand still in his hair, I swipe my thumb between his brows. “Is it as fine as the ones on your forehead?”

His brows pinch, and I’m sorry for it. But at least he doesn’t open his eyes.

“I promise, your secret is safe with me. It’s a little unmanly to admit you get them poisoned into submission on a regular basis.”

His hands tighten on my hips. “I expect I’ll need Botox by the time—”

“Well, look at you two lovebirds!”

At the sound of Polly’s voice, I jump. Though I don’t get very far as Raif’s hands tighten on my hips.

“No, we weren’t!” Internally, I’m squirming. I feel like a teenager who just got caught making out.

“Weren’t what?” The expression she’s wearing makes my cheeks heat.

“Nothing.” Then I physically squirm. “Quit manhandling the merchandise. Raif bear,” I tag on belatedly.

A frown flickers before he adopts an air of comic innocence, turning to face Polly. “I was just admiring your tree house,” he says without even a wriggle of discomfort.

“Were you now?” Like a dog with a bone, Polly’s not giving up on her I-know-exactly-what-you-were-up-to expression as she steps farther into the room. “I’m surprised you didn’t go outside to”—she clears her throat a little—“examine it closer. I can’t imagine being rumbled by your mother-in-law is much fun.”

“We weren’t doing anything,” I grumble.

At the same time, Raif offers up, “You know how it is.”

“Oh, I remember.”

“Ew! Unnecessary!” Because I know what’s coming next.

“While Lavender doesn’t remember—”

“Blessedly.”

“The older boys and Heather caught her father and me many a time in, shall we say, more compromising positions.”

I put my hands to my face and, for some reason, repeat the horror in a whisper, “Please never ever say ‘positions’ in that tone again.”

Lord alive. I thank my lucky stars that I was too young to remember walking in on my parents going at it on the shagpile rug. And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Raif actively sought an annulment after this. It’s not the kind of thing you’d look forward to hearing over roast lamb for the next twelve months, is it?

“All I’m saying is, I understand.”

“Fine. But please take your understanding somewhere else.”

Mum sort of tsks and shakes her head as though to say Silly Lavender. “I just came to tell you both lunch is ready.”

“Okay.” I don’t release my brows because I’m not convinced she’s done.

“Raif does look rather ravenous.”

“Muuum!” I growl, pulling the sleeves of my sweater over my fingers as I morph into my teenage self.

Heather, my elder sister, often says our parents were hippies ten years too late. It’s how we all ended up with ridiculous names, but she hypothesizes it’s also why the topic of sex is up for discussion at the dinner table. It’s little wonder I don’t have girlfriends. Having friends over as a teenager was so stressful.

“Come and carry the French beans to the dining room, would you, darling?”

“Why can’t Primrose do it?” There’s no way I’m leaving these two alone in a room. Raif might think he’s slick, but he’s got nothing on Polly. The woman is so wily.

“Primrose is on potato duty. They’re coming out of the oven as we speak.”

“You already gave me a job. I showed Raif around the house.”

“Oh, yes. I forgot. Admiring the tree house, wasn’t it?”

“We haven’t finished yet.”

“In the parlor? Well, maybe you are like your mother after all.”

“Lord, make it stop,” I whisper to the ceiling as Raif slides an arm around me, pulling me into his side.

“I’m sure you can finish showing me around the house another time.”

I make a face. Did they just create a new euphemism?

“I’ll flick the bean,” says Raif.

“Whoa—what?” I rear back, holding up my hand like a stop sign because, please, Lord, make it stop. I know we’re a pretty open family, but he did not just say that in front of my mother. Did he?

“Thank you, Raif. That would be lovely,” Polly says without batting an eyelid. Not that I’d rely on her reaction. My mother is a quirky bird. “They’re in the warming drawer under the oven.”

“Oh, thank God.” Beans, plural. I’ll fetch the beans, not…

“Do you have something against vegetables?” Raif asks, mildly perplexed.

In answer, I just wave him in the direction of the door.

“What a gentleman,” my mother says as his shoes echo along the hallway. But it didn’t sound like a compliment. More like a complaint.

“Yep, that’s my Raify bear,” I trill happily. “He’s a real prince.” And before she can make me the subject of her grilling, I trot off after him.

“For fuck’s sake, smile.”

Despite his words, Raif stares lovingly down at me, his soft expression barely flickering.

“You must’ve missed the training course. How to win friends and influence people?” I add.

“I don’t need friends, and I choose to influence people by ways other than niceties.”

“Story checks out,” I mutter. “But I’m not sure if you know women, on the whole, aren’t all that keen on being told to cheer up.”

Why is he even surprised I’m not smiling? First, I had to put up with Primrose’s attitude, and then my mother mentioned sex—in an actual conversation! I’m very slightly hung over and twisted up over the dry-humping session I initiated just a few hours ago. I know it happened in the dark and in another country, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking about it. But I survived. And I haven’t booked my ticket to Peru. Yet.

“I’m not sure every woman has to be asked to smile.”

I snort. Really attractive, right? “You’ve got to be joking? Cheer up, love—it might never ’appen, the patriarchy yell from the bellies of their work vans.” Grabbing my napkin, I give it the kind of shake a Parisienne fine dining server would be envious of. In other words, violently. Though the addition of a cockney accent might’ve been a bit much.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m beginning to wonder if you know any actual women. Because telling a woman to cheer up often has the opposite effect.”

He turns in his seat to rest his arm across the back of my chair, effectively shielding me from the view of the doorway. “I didn’t tell you to cheer up, mainly because I think you’re already happy. Happy torturing me,” he adds a little menacingly.

Oh, I am so fucked. That made me want to squee!

“And, pray tell, how did you come to that conclusion?”

“You enjoy antagonizing your sister,” he murmurs, tracing a finger along my jawline. “Though, maybe not quite as much as you enjoy antagonizing me.”

“That’s just a normal Sunday,” I answer, ignoring the second part of his assessment.

“Lavender.” His huskily addressed threat feels like that brush of velvet-covered steel again.

Ohh, more. I like it.

“Yes, my darling husban—” I squeak as his fingers clamp around my thigh.

“Lovely Lavender. You are going to pay for this.”

God, I like the sound of that, too.

“You don’t understand,” I begin, my words a little wobbly, “if I’m not tickling Prim’s hackles, the whole family will know something is up.”

He sort of growls as his grip tightens under the table.

“Is something… up?” I ask as my eyes flick down.

“Behave.” He leans in, his threat a whisper in my ear.

“You must be kinky like that.” I begin to squirm as his hand slides higher. “Stop!” I whisper. Or maybe giggle. But then Primrose appears at the end of the dining table, her huff signaling her distaste for our canoodling.

War games, Prim. If only you knew.

Without a word, she drops a basket of bread before stomping back to the kitchen.

“Knock that off,” I hiss as he resumes his torment, pulling my thigh a little wider as he leans in to bite the soft lobe of my ear. “No touchy-touchy.” I begin to wave my hands as though Raif is a fly that’s bothering me.

“That’s not what you said last night.”

“Last night was last night, and today is today,” I say primly, “so keep your hands to yourself. Thank you very much.”

“My hands,” he says, pressing his thumb over the seam of my jeans. “I could’ve used my hands last night, if you’d asked nicely. Instead of pretending to be asleep.”

“I was asleep.” Oh, right there. I close my eyes as he begins to rub.

“If you were asleep, how do you know what I’m talking about?”

“Educated guess.”

“You were so hot for it, princess. We could’ve had our consummation.”

“Stop that,” I say as a pinprick of something hot pokes at my chest. Embarrassment, I think. Arousal too, and not just because of the way he’s touching me. “It’s not my fault you’re too nice to take advantage.” I wrap my fingers around his wrist to slide it away. But I don’t. Not yet.

“Yes, that’s me. Nice.” His growl sends a deliciously subtle frisson through me.

Oh my God. I am not going to get off on the seam.

“S-some people call that a compliment.”

“But not people like you and me, princess.”

“Pax.” I angle my attention his way.

His brow flickers minutely. As though he doesn’t trust me.

“I’ll start behaving if you will,” I add.

“That would be a first.”

“It would also have my family asking if you’d Svengali’d me.”

“Svengali is a noun, not a verb.”

And the correct usage of grammar is not a turn-on. So maybe it’s his tone? Those silkily-mouthed words. I catch sight of myself in the mirror above the credenza. My eyes are so dark, my lids half mast, and my face a soft pink. Is this what I look like when I’m…

“Raif, please.” How it pains me to ask when what I really want to do is—

I gasp as his fingernail scrapes and, oh, the vibrations. Who knew the seam in a pair of jeans could be so useful?

“Need me to what, princess? Need me to make you come?”

Yes.“No. I’m not a deviant.” Why do my jeans feel like they’ve shrunk five sizes?

“You’re sure about that?”

“Okay, have it your way,” I whisper a little desperately. “I’ll try to smile. I’ll be nice.”

“I’m not sure I believe you.”

“Don’t you get it?” I whine. “Misbehaving would be telling my family that you fart horrendously in your sleep or that you have a thing for feet.”

Maybe I should shove my own foot in my mouth.

“Lavender.” God, why do I love the way he makes a warning of my name? But at least his hand stills as Primrose appears again.

“I don’t know why I have to play housemaid while you just sit here like you’ve forgotten what your hands are for.”

“I haven’t forgotten what my hands are for,” Raif says in that tone again. “Have I, princess?”

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. Not until I’ve taken a deep breath. “I’ll help,” I sort of squeak.

I make to move when his hand slips to my thigh with a squeeze.

“No, let me.” Raif begins to stand, his hand sliding away. I don’t know whether this makes me happy or sad. Maybe I’ll make sense of it when my body stops throbbing.

“No.” Primrose gives a resigned sigh. “You stay where you are. Can’t have the guests of honor serving.”

“My, aren’t I special.” Though my heart rate has begun to slow, annoying her doesn’t require a lot of attention. It’s second nature.

“Oh, Lavender, you’re so much more than a guest,” she says, sickly sweet. “You’re also the entertainment.”

I flip her the bird with an antagonistic smile.

God, I love that Primrose is my little sister. She’s so easy to annoy.

“What’s Brin still doing in the kitchen?” I ask as she begins to turn away.

“Pretending to be Whit,” she says, turning back. She lifts one shoulder, then drops it carelessly. “You know, reinforcing a patriarchal ideology.” Her eyes flick to Raif, and I instantly understand.

“Are your ears burning?” I turn the question to him.

“Should they be?”

“Probably. Whit likes to think he’s the man of the house,” I say by way of explanation.

Polly mostly placates my brothers’ masculine sensibilities. Oh, she tsks and nods and agrees in all the right places. Then, when they leave, she carries on doing whatever it was they warned her against. She’s a very managing woman, my mother. It’s genius, really. None of them seem to have realized she doesn’t give a flying fig for what they think.

“Don’t let me keep you away from the gossip,” I saw, shooing her with my hand.

This time, she flips me the bird before toddling off in the direction of the kitchen.

“So why do you think my brother is trying to get my mum to chuck you out?” I ask, turning to face him and pressing my elbow to the tabletop.

“I have no idea.”

“Yeah, I’m not buying that.” I rest my cheek on my hand. “Is it because you’re a criminal?”

“I’m not a criminal. I’m a businessman,” he carefully corrects.

“One who colors outside of the lines.” He doesn’t seem to appreciate hearing something he’s already admitted himself. “Is that 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 I know you’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 more the hills have eyes than the 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, and briam, a traditional Greek roasted vegetable dish. Polly does love a theme.

But the atmosphere has been pretty stilted. Usually, we’re all opinions and jibes and good-natured sniping. We draw up lines and encourage factions based on whims and thrown bread rolls as we gang up on one another. It’s only gotten more raucous since so many of us now have spouses.

“Sundays are so much better now that I’m not a vegetarian.” I push my cleaned plate an inch away. “If I eat another thing, I’ll go pop.”

“You’ve certainly worked up an appetite somewhere.” Polly adopts a particular tone. One that makes me frown. Surely, my own mother wouldn’t be implying anything tawdry.

I screw up my nose. Eww.

Yes, okay. So I made a bit of a pig of myself, but that was the point. I don’t want Raif thinking he’s married a delicate flower, do I?

“Vegan,” Primrose mutters.

“So?” I demand. “You think I don’t remember? That I don’t feel bad that I’m not anymore?”

“You’re just raisin’ awareness in other ways,” El, the third youngest of my elder brothers, puts in.

“Oh, the puns,” I reply, trying not to smile.

El puts his fingers to his lips. “Hush. We never talk about the time our sister was a cereal killer.”

“It’s not her fault. She had a lot of emotional cabbage back then,” Primrose puts in. “Did I say cabbage? I meant baggage.”

Raif chuckles softly as he slides his arm around my shoulders, giving me a brief squeeze. What comes as a surprise is how nice it feels.

“Lots of beans and cabbage.” El wafts his hand in front of his scrunched nose. “It’s little wonder we used to sit her at the end of the table.”

“Oi!” I protest. My eyes dip for my bread roll, but lucky for him, I’ve already eaten it. “You should’ve eaten him while his bones were still soft,” I say, turning to Polly, aggrieved.

“Now, come on.” Brin’s placating tone comes as a surprise. He’s been miserably silent almost the whole meal. “We don’t make fun of vegans,” he adds. “It’s tasteless.”

“Oh. The. Lols.” Leaning forward, I press my folded forearms against the tabletop and drop my head.

“Manners, Lavender,” Primrose mutters under her breath.

“Yes, let’s pretend we live by archaic and nonsensical etiquette in this house.”

“You don’t live in this house at all. Riddle me this. Why, out of all the flavors, did you choose salty?” she demands.

“Because sweet makes me sick. It gives me mood poisoning.”

“Polly, that was delicious,” Raif says, heading off her response. “I really can’t thank you enough for inviting me.”

“She didn’t,” says a once again brooding Brin from the other end of the table.

“I didn’t need to,” Polly says in the vein of “silly Brin” as she sends him the kind of fond glance reserved for troublesome toddlers. “Raif is part of the family now.”

Brin downs the rest of his wine in one gulp.

Not in celebration, I think.

“Do you have any photos of the wedding?” Polly asks.

“No,” I say at the same time as Raif answers in the affirmative, pulling out his phone. He turns it my way. It’s a close-up, obviously taken by one of his goons. I mean, one of our guests. He’s holding my face in his hands, and we’re looking at each other as though we can’t believe our luck. He’s about to kiss me, and I remember that moment—remember how my tummy flipped then twisted as his warm lips brushed mine.

I am such a sucker.

“Stop hogging it, darling.”

Mum’s voice pulls me back. I hand the phone to Raif, who passes it across the table.

Her eyes light up. She looks so pleased. Happy, even. It makes me feel like a total bitch.

“Will you send me a copy?” she asks tentatively.

“Of course.” Once everyone has viewed the happy moment, he slides away his phone.

“This is so delicious,” Mum says, putting her wine glass down. “If you don’t mind me asking, where did you pick this one up?” She touches the wine carafe the bottle has been decanted into. Bougie, remember?

“From a vineyard in Tuscany last year. I have a couple of cases in the cellar. Let me send them to you.”

“Oh no! I couldn’t possibly—”

“I insist. It’s the least I could do after such a warm welcome.”

“No, not at all!”

“Let him, Mum. I expect it must be a novel experience for Raif not getting what he wants.” All eyes turn to Brin at his peculiar tone. His gaze, bright and malicious, remains glued to the stranger at the table. “But it happens occasionally, doesn’t it, mate?”