3. Astrid #2
On his rare visits, I want him to feel totally unwelcome as part of my being-married-to-Astrid-is-really-fucking-miserable plan I’ve come up with.
And I don’t mind at all that my bestie has been welcomed with open arms. Miles is moving here in just a couple of weeks, and we’re going to have the best time.
He fits right in, and we’ve enjoyed all of the kooky events and festivals the town—okay, Nora—puts together.
“Thank you,” Declan says graciously, again giving the room a smile.
He has to stop that, or I’m so screwed.
Declan again meets my gaze, one eyebrow quirked.
I shake my head. “We’re right in the middle of—”
“Honey, we can wait,” someone else interrupts, another woman.
I’m sure Declan does just fine with men too, but it’s actually no surprise that the women are falling quickly.
“Your husband is here, and we know you haven’t seen him in a while.” Her name is Monica, and she laughs as she looks around. “What else are we gonna do anyway? You’re not keeping us from anything. This is the town's social event tonight.”
Right. Because heaven forbid any of these people actually stay home and do something that doesn’t involve the entire town.
I should be happy they prefer to spend all their time out of their houses and together. It makes my hockey arena very popular, and they’re certainly willing to spend their money to be entertained by my teams and fed by my concession stands.
“Might as well drag it out,” someone else agrees. “We have to wait for Bruce to finish all the shrimp anyway.”
“And all the sides!” someone calls.
“Well, the slaw and potato salad better be done!” another voice adds.
“Are we havin’ hushpuppies?” someone calls out from the back.
“We’d better be!”
“You all will eat whatever I bring out!” Bruce bellows from behind those of us sitting at the judges’ table.
“Wait,” I say, frowning. “There’s a whole dinner? I thought this was just a taste testing.”
“Of course it’s a dinner,” someone says. “You think we’re just sitting here watching you all eat all those shrimp? We want a taste.”
“You’re going to eat the winning flavor?” I ask.
“We better be eating them all!” someone yells.
“I want all three!” someone else adds. “Why do we only get one?”
“I want lemon garlic and sassy!” someone else says. “What the hell, Bruce?”
“Well, I want bourbon brown sugar! That sounds amazing! Why would you only give us one?” a man’s voice demands.
“That doesn’t make sense,” an older woman’s voice protests. “How could you know which would win?”
“He didn’t,” another woman says. “That’s the point of the voting.”
“Exactly. So he had to be prepared to serve us all, whichever one won. That means he’s got enough ingredients to serve us all three kinds,” the first woman points out.
“Hey, that’s true!” a man exclaims. “Come on, Bruce. We want all three! Why do five people get to decide?”
“And one of them is from Portland!” someone says.
I gasp and look at the man—whose name is Lenny, who has season tickets for hockey, buys all the merch, and constantly comments on social media posts supporting the team—so I can’t be angry with him.
“We love you, Astrid, but honey, you don’t even drink Sazerac,” Lenny says.
The room collectively gasps as another of my sins against Louisiana is revealed, and I roll my eyes again. Maybe I can be a little angry with him.
“You don’t drink Sazerac?” someone asks.
“I…don’t,” I admit.
“What do you drink?”
“I…um…”
“She prefers Sauternes,” Declan says.
Everyone turns to look at him.
“Which is absolutely right in character for Astrid,” he adds.
I don’t know what that means.
Sauternes is a sweet wine that is relatively expensive and somewhat rare. It’s not common on most restaurant menus in the US and is usually paired only with desserts and served after dinner.
What does ‘absolutely right in character for Astrid’ mean?
Probably that I’m high maintenance. The grapes for Sauternes are hand-picked, and it’s produced in only one specific region of the world.
It’s also produced from grapes that are afflicted with ‘noble rot’.
Hmm…
I don’t expect most of the room to know that, but I’m certain Declan O’Grady knows about the fungus-infested grapes used to make the wine.
No one says anything. Certainly, no one argues. A few people nod, though, as if this is a wonderful answer.
Which is hilarious.
I don’t think there’s a lot of Sauternes served in Rebel. It’s pretty weak compared to most of the drinks people in Louisiana prefer. Even their Bloody Marys kick my butt.
But I’m too surprised to laugh, or even smile.
Because how does Declan know what I drink?
I’m not a big drinker at all. That comes from literal decades of training as a world-class athlete who had to worry about everything I put in my body. Now it’s because I take pain medications that don’t play nice with alcohol.
And yeah, because I just don’t like a lot of it.
So again, how does Declan know the one very specific kind of rare wine I do like?
“Okay, everybody, calm the fuck down,” Bruce grumbles. “Everybody’s getting shrimp and whatever else I’ve got. If you don’t like that, you can go. Door’s right there.”
No one makes a move to get up, but everyone straightens and faces forward in their seats, and more importantly, stops staring at my husband.
I sigh. “So you don’t really need my vote then?”
There’s apparently not actually a point to the taste testing—and taste bud torturing—I’ve done.
That’s pretty typical around here. And I should be used to it.
The town does a lot of “just for fun” and “we’re just getting together” activities.
Which I suppose are purposes and goals in and of themselves.
“I tried to tell you that this wasn’t a big deal when you begged for my spot on the judging panel,” Muriel calls out to me.
I wince. That was supposed to be our secret.
I look at Declan again. Now both his brows are arched. So he caught that.
“Mrs. O’Grady?” he asks, extending a hand. “A word?”
I do not like the way my stomach flips over at the Mrs. O’Grady thing.
I am Mrs. O’Grady in name only.
And if our grandfathers had not been powerful, rich, eccentric—that’s very important—men who always got their way and drank way too much whiskey when they were together, we wouldn’t be in this situation at all.
But they were, and we are, and I can’t break us up. I’ve spent my life doing things to make my family happy and my country proud. Or trying to anyway. Agreeing to a marriage that has thrilled my parents and fulfilled my grandfather’s final wishes is totally on brand for me.
Pissing everyone off and not caring about it is Declan’s wheelhouse.
He has to be the one who calls this ridiculousness off.
Which means the more I annoy him, embarrass him, or just do everything contrary to what he wants, the better.
I pick another of the bourbon and brown sugar glazed shrimp off my plate and pop it into my mouth. I chew as I smile up at him.
“You’re being kind of—”
Okay, fuck. I didn’t look carefully at my plate before choosing the shrimp.
This is one of Bruce’s sassy shrimps.
The people down here call it ‘sweet heat’, but they all burned their taste buds off before they went to kindergarten.
The cayenne hits me before I finish my sentence, and I take a quick breath. Which sucks the spice further into my throat.
My eyes water, and suddenly my entire face is on fire.
Through the watery haze, I see concern on Declan’s face, even as his hand shoots out.
“Spit it out.”
Then I do something I almost can’t believe even as it happens. I spit the hunk of shrimp right into Declan O’Grady’s outstretched palm.
I start to reach for my glass of water, but instead, he shoves a piece of buttermilk biscuit into my mouth.
“Chew.”
I don’t know if it’s the firm tone of voice or simple self-preservation, but I do as he tells me.
The burning eases slightly, and the next thing I know, Declan is beside me, scooping me out of my chair.
“I’m taking her.”
Is that really freaking sexy? Or am I dazed from sucking cayenne pepper into my frontal lobe?