They’ve gotten more than cozy in the last months, and according to Vincent they’re serious enough that he’s heard them discussing wedding plans a time or two.
Does it make me happy that they’re in love? Well, yeah. I just wish that didn’t mean that two of the world’s most judgmental and sanctimonious people will soon be procreating together.
That thought, and the recent scare over Beau, has me stopping in my tracks as an unexpected twinge of loss hits me. My own kid would have been growing safely in my belly and kicking by now.
“Dove?”
That voice brings me crashing back to the present, and I ignore the question in his eyes, choosing instead to walk into the kitchen for an early dinner and what turns out to be the freaking Spanish Inquisition.
Beau, as usual, sits at the head of the table, looking supremely satisfied when Vincent takes the seat beside me and proceeds to lavish me with attention and husbandly affection.
By the time dessert rolls around—a chocolate mousse I usually love but which only makes my stomach iffier—I’m just about ready to blow my top and start screaming as my family, and goddamned Bee, tries to assure me that cold feet after a wedding is totally normal.
I want to scream that my feet had been piping hot and tapping to the tune of love up to the moment I’d become aware of Beau and Vincent’s treachery.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell them all how I’d been sized up and bought like a freaking cow, my only value to either of them as that of a pawn in some sort of business transaction.
I can’t, of course, because despite the anger I still feel, I can see that Beau isn’t exactly as hale and hearty as he’d previously been, and I just can’t do that to Mama.
It’d break her heart to know that her perfect husband had done that to her beloved daughter.
So I keep my mouth shut and instead content my vengeful streak by digging my nails into Vincent’s thigh, relishing his occasional winces of pain and his ineffectual shifting to dodge my hands.
His pained smiles as he talks to Mama give me a wicked idea, and I smother a grin as I gentle my fingers and feel him relax before he stiffens with a muffled groan.
“So, Sis, you planning on finishing that series you started last year?” Justin asks just as my hand encounters Vincent’s crotch.
His strangled cough is priceless, and I manage a smile for the first time since sitting down.
“I haven’t started it yet.”
Vincent squirms and attempts to bat my hand away from his junk for the first time ever, and I giggle, covering my mirth behind a cough as I take a sip of white wine.
“Yeah, you did. It’s upstairs in your studio room.”
Cursing my own brother to hell and back is probably not a very Christian thing to do, but as I feel Vincent still and turn his gaze on me, my previous table games well and truly forgotten, I curse him and his wayward tongue to hell and back.
“You’ve a piece here? From when?”
“Oh, Thanksgiving,” Mama trills, unaware of the undercurrents between the two of us as I attempt to ignore his eyes. “She painted non-stop that whole month, but all she got out of it was one canvas. None of us have seen it yet, of course, not without her permission. Isn’t it part of your next stuff, baby?”
“Well, of course it is!”
I swallow and look over at Beau. Goddammit, I see immediately from the calculating look in the old man’s eyes that he’s done the unthinkable and invaded my space.
He knows what’s under that sheet. My ultimate humiliation.
“No, it isn’t,” I grit out, keeping my eyes off Mama and Justin.
Bee knows me well enough not to push the issue, thanks to the harsh tone of my voice, so all I’m left with is Vincent on my right and Beau, his blue eyes sparkling wickedly as he keeps me pinned.
No matter how upset or hurt I am, I can never forget that my father knows me better than anyone on the planet, and if he’s seen that painting he now knows exactly what’s going on inside me.
Thank God Vincent had never gone back to Parker’s place when he’d come for me, or I’d be even more humiliated now. Nobody can ever see that painting, not if I want to keep what little part of me I have left hidden.
“But Sis—”
“I’m real tired. I think I’ll turn in early. Please excuse me.”
With that I make my escape, not surprised when the door bangs open and closes, the lock clicking ominously. I ignore him and grab pajamas, since it’s way too late to fly now and I’m quite frankly too exhausted to even try.
When I exit the bathroom he’s still standing exactly where I’d left him.
“Why are you so upset?”