Page 49 of Yours Temporarily

“Dad.” Jeremy engulfs the man in an embrace,then steps back and places his hand on my back, gently nudging me forward. “This is Zuri.”

To my surprise, the man puts out his hand to shake mine. As he asks if I was born in Colorado, I try not to think much about why Jeremy didn’t add fiancée to his introduction.

“I’m a San Francisco native, but I’ve always wanted to visit Colorado.” As the conversation shifts, my shoulders relax, and I allow myself the first deep breath since entering the house, relieved to steer away from my earlier discomfort.

“I’m hoping to take her skiing tomorrow.” Jeremy shifts his hand to my waist.

“Let’s make our way to the table for dinner. Come along, everyone.” Sara claps, slicing through our conversation with an air that brooks no argument.

I survey the expanse around us—a seamless transition from the main living area to what must be the dining room. This section of the house, too, boasts a lofty ceiling and floor-to-ceiling windows that bathe the space in the dying light. Each nook, be it beside a grand piano or atop a side table, plays host to fresh flowers, their subtle fragrance—a blend of roses and something sweet—mingles with the rich aromas wafting from the kitchen. Mom would have loved to have decorated such a place. And I must admit Sara’s done a beautiful job.

A whole procession surrounds us, their voices and chatter making the room lively. As we approach, I notice servers who were previously a blur in my peripheral vision, now navigating the room with loaded trays.

Jeremy and I stop at one of the two linen-draped tables beneath the chandelier. Before each cushioned chair is a plate, and floral cloth napkins wrap around the shiny silverware.

Sara, with a practiced grace, directs one of the couples toward a table near the fireplace. “Find your name,” her command emphasizes the evening’s formality.

“It’s just a casual dinner, Mom,” Jeremy mutters under his breath.

Her heels click against the floor as she turns, her gaze piercing to where Jeremy and I stand, his hand frozen midmotion over a chair he’d been about to claim. “Jeremy, you’re next to Sonya tonight.” She indicates across the table where Sonya is already ensconced. Then she offers us a nonchalant glance before accepting a wineglass half filled with red liquid from the server. “Your fiancée can sit over there with Gavin and Hope.”

She directs a semblance of an apologetic smile my way. “I didn’t realize you’d be joining us.”

I bite the inside of my tongue to swallow the sting of her words as I nod. Hope warned me about Sara. So did Jeremy. And I even witnessed it in that brief moment in San Francisco. She has a knack for commanding a room and leaving others feeling slightly off-balance. But it doesn’t take a genius to know that the seats by the bride and groom are the most coveted. Her placing me there as if it’s the only open space for an afterthought guest is ridiculous.

“Zee is sitting here with me.” Jeremy’s firm tone leaves no room for protest as he pulls out a chair for me.

Wow, there’s the confident COO I know.

He then takes the seat beside me, dismissing his mother’s directive. With a defiant flick, he rearranges the name cards and tucks them beneath the decorative centerpiece as if to erase any evidence of the original seating plan.

“You can’t just mess up my seating arrangement.”

Sara’s complaint is a distant murmur as Jeremy focuses on me, his actions a silent rebellion. “Would you like something to drink besides water?” he asks. And, with that gentle defiance in his gaze, I can picture eighteen-year-old Jeremy defying his mom when he dated the ranchers’ daughter.

“Water’s fine.”

He touches my hand. “I promise I’ll get you some kombucha tomorrow, though I’m sure yours tastes better.”

His compliment and consideration warm me more than they should.

With Jeremy’s rearrangement, Sara relocates two people to the next table and moves Sonya to the chair across from us, then positions herself beside her. The table, designed to accommodate a dozen, feels more confining than I expected. Even when compared to the more expansive table by the fireplace where lively chatter rings out between Hope, Gavin, Patty, and Gavin’s dad. All the relaxed people are at that table.

Too bad, Jeremy didn’t drag us over there.

Dinner is finally served, steak and lamb, accompanied by an array of sides.

Cutlery chimes against porcelain, offsetting the steady hum of conversation, and I remain tense and out of place, despite Jeremy’s presence.

With Sara’s intensity cutting through the room, I don’t blame him for his silence. Goodness, even I don’t want to talk—far too mentally exhausted by her manipulative games.

Yet, undeterred, Sara presses on with her agenda. It’s clear now why she chose to position herself next to Sonya, overlooking her husband’s presence at the other table. “Sonya, sweetheart.” Her voice rises above the chatter as she swirls the red wine in her glass. “Why don’t you tell Jeremy about your new position?”

Sonya sits straight, dabbing at her lips with a napkin before flitting her gaze to Jeremy who’s focused on slicing his steak with savage force. “I’m now the curator at Opulence.” She nods and elaborates on her role, engaging in the sort of art acquisitions that would appeal to the most discerning of collectors.

“Good for you,” Jeremy mutters, a harsh sarcasm seeping free. He reaches for his water and takes a sip. “A private art gallery suits you well.”

Sonya, seeming oblivious to his disinterest, chatters on about the elite art gallery. “The challenges keep me engaged.”

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