Chapter 21 #2
“Don’t you dare make Addy feel unimportant again,” I say in a vicious whisper for Diana’s ears only, praying it doesn’t reach Addy.
Diana meets my eyes, seeing the hardness there. Yes, this is my sort-of boyfriend’s mother, but my job here is to protect my sister. Her eyes widen, like I’m watching her process that I won’t sit back and let her treat Addy poorly, and she starts backpedaling.
“The perfect thing about this seat,” she says, glancing frantically between the four of us, “is I get to sit close to both of the girls, which is all I want.”
None of us mention she was fine not sitting close to Addy before I walked up. I’m hoping that Addy’s so securely wrapped in her Harrison love bubble that she doesn’t notice, but the forced nature of her smile says otherwise.
Diana scurries around the table to her new seat, fussing over Addy—how stunning her sundress is and how smooth and bouncy her curls are—shooting me glances that say, See, I’m being friendly, and I let out a sigh of relief.
If Owen and I are going to make this thing between us work, the more Diana likes me, the better, but I won’t sacrifice Addy on the altar of gaining Diana’s approval.
The table’s tight, like they squeezed six chairs at a table made for four, and every time either of us shifts, our arms brush.
Owen casually slips his hand over, giving my knee a quick, reassuring squeeze before taking it back.
I mourn the loss of contact immediately, even though I know he can’t keep touching me here.
The beginning of the meal passes without anything of note. Diana peppers us both with questions. The tension in Addy’s shoulders from her earlier comment doesn’t disappear completely, but releases a bit more with every smile and thoughtful hum from Diana’s lips.
I’m two bites into my filet mignon when Owen’s hand slips back onto my knee, and every cell in my body goes on high alert.
He doesn’t look my way, talking about something with the group that I can’t compute while he’s touching me.
His hand doesn’t move, just rests on my leg.
I sit in anticipation until his middle finger shifts, the smallest of circles that has other parts of my anatomy clenching.
All my existence has narrowed to that one millimeter of space.
But two can play this game. I take a bite of my mashed potatoes and let out a borderline pornographic moan. His fingers tighten on my thigh in response, a five-point star of pure sensation.
“This is so good,” I say, fighting to keep the words clear and strong when I feel breathless. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Owen’s lips tilt.
“I’ve always loved this restaurant,” Diana says. “The cook’s phenomenal.”
“I’m so impressed,” Addy says, unaware that her brother-in-law’s fingers are making a slow trek up my leg.
I didn’t realize until now that Owen’s left-handed, but I’m grateful for it.
He keeps spooning his mushroom risotto into his mouth like nothing’s happening, while his right hand teases, moving up until it meets the frayed edge of my shorts and slips underneath.
I widen my legs, praying those long, rough fingers can reach where I need them.
He pushes against the resistance of the denim, running the tip of his middle finger over my center before circling my clit.
While Addy, Harrison, and Diana are distracted, discussing the quality of the locally sourced vegetables, Owen leans over to whisper, “Next time, I want you in a dress.”
My ridiculous whimper brings everyone’s attention back to me. I cough. “It’s … just really, really good.”
Addy’s brow furrows, and she glances between me and Owen like we’re a riddle she’s determined to solve. I fight against the flush in my cheeks.
“I like the changes they’ve made,” Harrison says, leaning forward to catch my eye. “How does this compare to the restaurants you’ve worked in?”
Owen turns to me, a smirk on his face. “Yeah, Thea. What do you think?”
That smirk paired with his warm fingers should be illegal. He slips his hand from between my legs, stroking the sensitive skin of my inner thighs instead, and I don’t know if I’m grateful for the space or desperate for him to finish what he started.
“It’s, um…” I clear my throat, trying to focus enough to form a coherent response.
I glance around the restaurant. It’s stunning when you stop thirsting over your sorta-but-not-quite boyfriend to look at the space.
It must be a newer renovation, with light wood floors paired with crisp white tile along the main wall.
Touches of greenery and light blues add to the soft, contemporary space.
It looks like it popped right off a Pinterest inspiration board.
But it’s nearly empty, making what should be an airy, open space feel desolate.
“It’s beautiful,” I say diplomatically, “but … a bit … quiet?”
Now that I see it, I can’t unsee it. I want to go back to Owen’s fingers overwhelming all my other senses, but Camila’s disappeared from behind the desk, and I see the expressions of horror on the patrons closer to the front of the restaurant from here, and I can’t stop myself from checking in.
“I’m sorry, I’ll be right back,” I say, pushing back from the table and mourning the way Owen’s hand slides off my thigh.
Camila slips out of the back as I walk up. “They scare you off already?”
“Just needed to stretch my legs,” I say. “A quiet night?”
She winces. “Unfortunately, not. The restaurant used to be popular with the town and the guests, but we got hit with a kitchen fire a couple years ago and took the opportunity to renovate. Another nice restaurant opened downtown while we were getting up and running, and it’s been hard to get people up the mountain ever since. ”
Before I can speak, Camila’s face suddenly pinches like she’s smelled something horrible.
“Excuse me,” she says primly, walking a few feet to the door with WOMEN printed in bold across the frosted window.
A second passes before she starts retching. The same guests from before look dubiously at their food and then back at the door Camila disappeared through. I awkwardly wave, and they lift their hand in return.
Camila comes out with a bright smile. “Has Aunt Diana tried to turn this into a double wedding yet?
My brows pull together. “Are you okay?”
Her smile falters a bit. “Of course! Why would you ask?”
I look over at the patrons, who are all watching us closely, then position myself with my back to them. I point at the door, then mimic throwing up. And her eyes go wide.
“Y’all could hear that?” When I scrunch up my nose and nod, she mutters to herself in Spanish.
“Do you need to go home?” I ask.
She sighs, her hand landing on her bump. “Contrary to what Nana says, the condition is not, in fact, catching.”
I point at the cantaloupe on her stomach. “Aren’t you a little far along for that?”
“Yes, but this little parasite”—her smile is so indulgent that you just know her daughter is going to be spoiled beyond all reason—“is an overachiever. The doctor said it’ll continue all the way through, and with the wedding events, I forgot to grab the refill of my anti-nausea meds before work.”
“Can I get you anything? Ginger ale or crackers or something?”
“Oh, I tried all of that, trust me. The only thing that works is the medication and a flat surface until it can take effect.” Her face goes pinched again. “Excuse me one minute.”
She turns on her heel again, posture straight and a calm look on her face, but the chorus of gagging immediately picks back up. A minute or so later, she’s back like nothing ever happened.
“So your plan is to just keep throwing up every ten minutes all night?”
Her smile is brittle. “This has been my life for the past four months. If there’s a toilet in this building, I’ve puked in it. I can’t leave the restaurant.”
“What if I managed it?” I ask before I can think it through. I’ve never managed a restaurant, but I’ve been in them my entire working life. How hard could it be for a couple of hours? There are only three tables filled, for god’s sake, including the Hayes table.