29. Jamison
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
JAMISON
Lake activities began the next day, which sounded charming until it became clear the Bellemeres took lakeside recreation as seriously as lesser families took coups.
There were striped umbrellas along the grass. White picnic blankets set out. Silver trays of sandwiches under glass domes. Lemonade in cut-crystal dispensers. Towels folded in stacks. Boats drawn up near the jetty.
Children released in supervised packs, shrieking toward the shallows. I stood beneath one of the umbrellas with a cigarette between my fingers and watched Sienna walk down the grass in a black bikini.
The day improved.
Dramatically.
She wore a sheer white wrap skirt low on her hips, tied at one side, which did absolutely fucking nothing to hide the shape of her. Black straps around her neck. A slim little waist. Dancer’s legs. Hair braided back from her face with a white ribbon woven through it.
Then she turned to say something to Sabine’s oldest daughter, and I saw her ass.
The bikini bottom sat high and small, framed by the sheer wrap, tight enough that my entire body went quiet in the way men went quiet before doing something regrettable.
Ballet had built that ass with discipline.
Every step made the wrap shift over her hips, giving me just enough to become religious about suffering.
She bent to pick up a child’s dropped sunhat.
I took a slow drag from my cigarette.
Reasonable men looked away.
I had never been accused of that defect.
“Crow.”
I kept watching Sienna.
“Crow.”
Still watching.
A small hand tugged at the side of my black linen shirt.
I looked down.
Sabine’s daughter, Mila stood beside me with wet curls stuck to her cheeks and a suspicious expression.
“What?” I asked.
“You’re staring.”
“Yes.”
“At Aunt Sienna.” Mila looked at me as if deciding whether I was stupid or merely tall. “You’re weird.”
She ran back toward Sienna, clearly to report me.
Adrian appeared at my left with a glass.
His grin came fast. Too comfortable now. I had made the mistake of being useful at breakfast, and Bellemere men adjusted to usefulness the way stray dogs adjusted to meat.
Julian joined us, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Beside him stood two brothers-in-law: Sabine’s husband, Henri, and sunburned already, and Liora’s husband.
“Ready for the sandwich competition Crow?” Adrian asked.
I answered by giving the men a look to say they should think longer before speaking to me. All I wanted was one cigarette and peace.
“Bellemere lake days are highly competitive.” Julian’s expression grew serious. “The sandwiches matter.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
He meant that.
“We have to guess the filling.” Henri nodded solemnly. “Last year there was an argument over the difference between smoked trout and smoked salmon.”
“Sienna’s allergic to fish.” How the fuck could they let her eat mystery sandwiches. Will she die. Will she not die. What a great family fucking game.
“Sienna only eats off the blue plates.” Adrian pointed toward the long table where five older women and two cousins stood around covered trays.
Julian checked his watch. “Sandwich identification. Guests taste one triangle from each platter, then guess the filling and the herb butter. Points given for full accuracy.”
“Why?”
“Tradition. And to the loser is to be paired with mother for charades.”
All four men looked toward the terrace where Sienna’s mother stood, speaking to Aunt Mirelle with a fan in one hand.
I looked at them for a long second. “Your family requires psychiatric assistance.”
“Sienna likes lake day,” Julian said.
That was a filthy tactic.
I looked back at her.
Sienna sat now on the edge of a picnic blanket near the children, the white wrap spread over her thighs, black bikini visible beneath sheer fabric. Mila leaned against one side of her, Nell against the other, both speaking at once. Sienna listened as if every word deserved her full attention.
Still, I refused participation on the reasonable grounds that I was a grown man. I would not guess what was going into my mouth. Sienna heard this from the blanket and gave me one look.
I participated under protest, which meant the Bellemeres took actual fucking notes while I stood beneath a striped umbrella beside a tasting table arranged with little cards, pencils, glass domes.
The children had been barred from formal scoring after Nell wrote “green mud” beside several samples and declared herself the winner.
The adult round began with cucumber, mint, and some pale cheese thing that offended me by existing.
Sienna reached for the first blue plate, and I stopped her wrist before the sandwich reached her mouth.
She blinked up at me. “Jamison, it’s from my plate.”
“I can see that.”
“The blue plates are mine. That means they’re safe.”
I looked at the silver trays under their glass domes, the neat rows of little triangles, the staff standing behind the table with blank professional faces and folded hands.
Then I looked back at the plate in her hand.
The Bellemeres had built an entire family game around hiding fillings inside bread and guessing what they were, while my fiancée had a fish allergy. An inspired piece of dynasty madness.
“No plate is safe,” I said.
Her expression changed, because she heard the edge in my voice and mistook it for anger aimed at her. That irritated me more than the sandwiches. I set the plate down, caught her chin between my fingers, and turned her face back to mine.
“Eyes on me.”
Her lashes lifted.
Good girl.
“I’m not telling you off. I don’t want you dead.” The color in her cheeks faded slightly. I kissed one cheek. “Where’s your pen?”
She hesitated.
“Sienna.”
“I didn’t bring one down.”
“You came to a mystery sandwich event without an EpiPen.”
Her gaze dropped, and I tilted her chin again. “No. Eyes.”
She looked back up at me.
“I mean it. I’m not angry at you.” I looked over her shoulder. “Reeves.”
Reeves appeared near the edge of the umbrella shade before anyone else had finished turning their head. He already had the spare auto-injector in his hand, because the man had enough sense to anticipate danger.
I took it from him and placed it beside Sienna’s scorecard, close enough for her to reach, far enough from the sweating lemonade jug that condensation would not touch it.
Sienna stared at it. “You had one?”
“I have them everywhere.”
Sienna looked at the pen, then at me. “That’s very sweet.”
Apparently I had won points by remembering basic medical safety. I pulled the chair back and sat, then caught her by the waist and drew her onto my lap. She gasped softly, hands landing on my shoulders.
“Jamison, we’re in public.”
“They were staring before. Now they have a reason.”
She settled across one thigh, her white wrap brushing my wrist, her bare knee warm against my leg.
I picked up the first triangle from her plate. Cucumber, mint, pale cheese. Already offensive. I bit off the corner and chewed while Sienna watched me with growing amusement.
“You’re testing each one?” she asked.
“Yes.”
No fish. I held the remaining piece to her mouth. “Safe.”
She stared at it, then at me. “You’re feeding me now?”
“Yes.”
Her blush deepened, but she leaned forward and took the bite from my fingers. Her lips brushed my thumb, and my attention cut sharply to her mouth. Terrible development. Her mouth made the entire act much less burdensome.
I took the second triangle. Chicken, herb butter, some green thing. Safe. I fed it to her, and she took it again. Each sandwich was as horrible as the next.
She leaned close to my ear, her lips brushing the edge of it. “Thank you.”
I turned my head enough that my mouth brushed the inside of her wrist where her hand rested near my shoulder. I caught it, held it, and kissed the pulse.
“Always, baby.”
Round four caused trouble.
Victor claimed tarragon. Adrian said chervil.
Julian said the butter was lemon-thyme but the filling had been mislabeled because the kitchen used poached chicken instead of egg.
Aunt Mirelle declared everyone uncultured and wrote “sorrel” in large angry letters.
Sienna wrote down smoked almond, parsley, and goat curd.
I looked at her card. “You made that up.”
“I did not.”
“No sandwich on earth requires those ingredients together.”
She tapped my hand gently. “Just write chicken and green stuff again.”
I was being smack talked about sandwiches.
“I wasn’t guessing chicken.”
“You wrote chicken four times.” She grinned down at her pencil.
Mila appeared again, dragging Nell by the wrist. “Aunt Sienna, you promised.”
Sienna looked down. “I promised after sandwiches.”
“Sandwiches are finished.” Mila grabbed Sienna’s hand. My hand tightened slightly at her side.
The child saw it and narrowed her eyes.
“She’s coming.” Mila pulled harder. “We need Aunt Sienna.”
“No.”
Sienna’s fingers slipped under my palm at her back and pinched lightly.
I sighed. “Fine. I can stand near frogs.”
Nell cheered.
I followed at a controlled distance. Controlled meaning close enough that if one of the little animals near the pond decided to leap toward her, I could remove it from existence.
Mila led them with Honey tucked under one arm. Nell followed with a little tin bucket. Tomas carried a magnifying glass backward and accused reeds of hiding things on purpose.
Sienna walked with them at the edge of the water, black bikini under that useless sheer wrap, looking happier than any sane woman should look while supervising mud.
I followed because she was there.
That was the entire explanation.
“You walk too loud,” Mila told me without turning around.
“I do not.”
“You do. Frogs hear feet.”
Sienna looked back at me, smiling. “She’s right. You need soft feet.”
“I have survived twenty-eight years without consulting frogs on my movement.”
Mila spun, clutching Honey to her chest. “Crow.”
I looked down at her.
She pointed one small finger at me. “Quiet.”
The child had nerve. Harlan men had lost property for less tone. Sienna bit her lip. I narrowed my eyes at the tiny tyrant.